Stars Like a River
by so kiss me goodbye
Summary: Musician Liz Kennedy is devastated when her boyfriend ends his life...until a chance meeting with a dubious interplanetary exporter sets her on a collision course with the future, a pair of starcrossed lovers and a ship called Enterprise.
1. Prologue: The Highwayman

**Updated author's note: **I haven't abandoned this story - I still know precisely where it's going - but I have put it on hold while I concentrate on my _X-Files_ colonization novel. If the blurb below interests you but you're afraid of starting something which peters out, I recommend you don't read this. Seriously, I'd love you to read it, but I don't want you to be disappointed. I'll take down this note (and get posting again) when I'm ready to resume. I apologize to those people who have already started reading and hope they can forgive my deviation from the game plan.

**Stars Like A River**

When her boyfriend ends his life, musician Liz Kennedy is devastated - until a chance meeting with a dubious exporter sets her on a collision course with a ship called the _Enterprise_. As her journey across time and space leads her closer to her heart's desire, her tale of love, loss and music slowly unravels. But when things turn deadly, Liz's plight draws Commanders William Riker and Deanna Troi into danger, which may not just kill any chance they have for a future together, but leave them apart forever.

WARNING: Contains karaoke.

RATED: T

SPOILERS: Takes place just before _Insurrection_ and references some events from some novels ... but I can't remember which ones :(

**Author's note:** I got sick of waiting for somebody else to write the story I wanted to read. Mary Sues, time travel, really, really gratuitous song refs, characters afflicted with painful, torturous nightmares – if that's your sort of thing, hope reading it gives you as much enjoyment as I'm having writing it.

**Disclaimer: **This story is written, respectfully and thankfully, but without the blessing of the official Star Trek brand owners. It is not done for pecuniary gain and is humbly offered in the spirit of an homage to the work of those who inspired it. An extra special doff of the chapeau goes to Peter David, without whose seminal work _Imzadi,_ _Stars_ would never have been conceived.

_Dedicated to anyone else insulted by the incredibly pat way Troi and Riker ultimately patch things up on screen._

Prologue:

**The Highwayman**

She concluded - after an hour - waiting for Yoko Ono's phone to ring was as pointless as hoping David would walk through her apartment door that evening and surprise her with flowers. Surprise her with marmite. Surprise her with life.

Bastard.

But it wasn't David doing the surprising today. She barely noticed the rumbling cough behind her until the cushioned seat she was sitting on puffed up when a greater weight sank next to her.

Even so she ignored the newcomer. She heard the oh-so-contraband crinkle of a cellophane packet, chewing, then more crinkling. Eventually, the crinkling became scrunching and she assumed the chocolate bar had been consumed.

She started at the deep, rich voice when it broke the silence.

"Once, I sat here for three and a half hours."

Her head didn't move. She kept staring ahead.

"I didn't want to leave when they started closing up," the voice continued. "I tried to reason with them - _what if Yoko's forgotten the time difference between Japan and New York_, I asked. What if she meant to ring and got delayed? What if the phone starts ringing just as we exit the gallery? Wouldn't she want someone - a fan - to be there?"

For a nasty second black spots swam across her eyes and she had to put a hand down to keep her head from spinning away. She shivered, feeling exposed.

For the first time since arriving at the museum, her attention was torn from the recess in the corner where the old-fashioned cream dial up telephone - Yoko Ono's phone to the adoring public - was set. She turned.

The voice belonged to a man, a large, shabby man. Even seated, he loomed over her.

Despite the reasonable weather and relative warmth of the building, a long brown coat covered him up to the collar under his ears. A button hung on a thread, and a tweed cap was crammed onto his head. It did nothing to tame a mess of wild salt and pepper curls, rioting underneath. From top to bottom, including a chunky pair of hiking boats to the man himself, looked freshly filched from a trash can.

As if her meanness was splashed across her face, she winced and rushed to appease her guilt.

"Did they let you stay?"

He laughed.

"In this country?"

She couldn't place his accent, but something in his posture, shoulders slumped forward, hand on chin, and a morose expression on his scruffy, unshaven face, made her think of a sad Russian performing bear.

"I was so certain…"

When he didn't finish, she turned back to the phone, its powerful compulsion at work again.

"Why shouldn't I be the lucky one?" she said. "That's what I think. I could just walk out this room and if it rang someone else would get all the luck. But if I just sit here and bide my time and pay my dues, couldn't fate reward me with this one thing to make up for everything else..."

Too late she realized how melodramatic she must have sounded. A brick wall would have been handy just then.

As though he never heard her the Russian bear carried on. "I was so certain … I couldn't work out what went wrong - why she didn't call."

She searched for something to say.

"I should have been paying more attention," he said with a shake of his head.

She looked at him.

"Why? What happened?"

"I had my days wrong."

He looked her directly in the eyes. "She'd rung the day before."

"Oh."

Talk dried up. The young woman stole sideways glances at the man while he leaned over his knees to stare at his fraying bootlaces. Around the room individuals and couples drifted from artifact to artifact. White and full of geometric shapes, the room was as much an art piece as the exhibits on display.

Briefly the phone was forgotten as she let the music wash over her. She imagined that there was no heaven, _no hell below us, above us only sky._

The man lurched, rocking her on the seat as the cushion rolled.

"Do you have time for lunch?"

Without thought she glanced at her wrist. "It's 3pm."

"A drink, then. Tea and scones in the café. You can tell me why you think a call from Yoko Ono is going to make up for the tragedy that is the rest of your life."

"But what if the..." She gestured to the object of torment, which was now concealed by a group of tourists.

He shook his head.

"Not today…I just know," he said, putting his hands up, anticipating the obvious question.

She sighed. "I suppose it is a bit pathetic."

"Come, then. The John Lennon Museum has taken up enough of your time today, I'd say. What do you think? Tea? Coffee?"

She stared at him, wondering why alarm bells were not sounding. Hands sunk deep in pockets, coat pulled up under his chin, he wasn't exuding an air of trustability.

But there was something else in his face - a seriousness and intelligence, and a warmth, which she felt compelled to respond to.

He could have been someone's uncared-for uncle. Her heart ached.

Besides, he was the first person she had had a real conversation with in days.

And, he had smiled at her.

Banishing her last doubts she smiled.

"I think we can do better than crap coffee and burnt scones."

Ten minutes later she had lead him away from the station plaza to a tiny izakaya, a small dilapidated building nestled impossibly between two five-storied affairs, pachinko and karaoke parlors, respectively.

Small, dark and decorated with traditional posters of scary, sharp-nosed aristocrats, Kitanoya was a firm favorite with an older set of Japanese. The paper corners of the posters had yellowed and cracked around their pins. A group of suited men sat on cushions around a low table on a platform off to one side. Uniform black shoes had been neatly arranged on the floor next to them; jackets lay cast aside and behind, and beer flowed freely at the table. Smoke hung suspended in a cloud around their eyebrows.

They elicited a few open stares as they took bar stalls at the counter which ran the length of the room, opposite the platform. At the farthest end of the bar was a tiny stage with a TV on a stand.

It was a mystery why the izakaya had its own karaoke machine when Karaoke Kan obviously did such a bustling trade. Clientèle probably made all the difference, the young woman mused, as she took in the bar. Enka probably wasn't as big with the bright young things who milled around next door as it was with the older generation who frequented slightly crusty izakaya. Actually, enka wasn't that big with her either - too much nasal warbling - but it set the scene for her tale.

Because, before she had even ordered her first beer, she had decided she was going to tell her tale.

So she did.

Two frothy beers later she and her new friend contemplated the bowls of edamame husks that were yet to be removed from the counter. He had listened quietly, eyebrow shooting up or shaking his head in appropriate places.

"So, here you are," he said.

"Yep." She poked one of the bowls, sliding it back and forth. Now that it was out - that she'd finally put words to the events - she wondered how it had sounded to the stranger.

"I wish I knew the right thing to say ... but I have to admit in all my travels I've never encountered a situation as-"

"Ridiculous? Tragically humorous?"

"Perhaps, 'needless' - if I am to be honest. If I ever run into this David of yours, I shall make it a priority to tell him exactly what I think of his antics."

She smiled and gulped back an unladylike burp.

"You don't listen too well, do you? In the realms of possibility, I'd say your chances of ever running into my partner are up there with the moon being made of cheese and humans propelling themselves as fast as the speed of light."

"A fifty percent chance then."

She stole a suspicious look at him but his face remained straight. Oblivious.

He didn't wait to let her go on. "Your job sounds glamorous - a lounge singer, eh?"

She shrugged. "It's a step sideways from hostessing. I suppose I could make more teaching."

"Why don't you?"

She paused, studying her fingers against the glossy stained wood of the counter.

"Never really considered it ... I don't really fit in with that sort of crowd."

He reached for a tooth pick. "Say the phone had rung."

She froze.

"Say you did answer it, and there was Yoko Ono on the other end. What would you have said?"

She relaxed.

"Naturally, I've wondered about that.

"D'you know something? I have absolutely no idea. I mean, what can you really say? _Hi, how are you? Omigod. I can't believe this is really happening. What's the weather like in New York? How's Sean..."_

She ran out of breath and questions.

"Truthfully, I wasn't waiting out of some desperate desire to talk to John Lennon's widow. I just wanted to be somewhere at the right time and in the right place for once. I wanted something _good_ and special to happen to me."

The background enka was cut off mid-flourish as a patron, a wiry, bespectacled salariman, took to the tiny stage. Other patrons clapped and called as the man said something and did a little bow. He keyed a number into the machine's remote.

The big stranger gave no sign he was taking any notice.

"I suspect I've got nothing better to ask her either. Maybe the phone didn't ring for us because we weren't the right people to take the call."

She frowned.

"If that were true, imagine if you were the person with the right question and not-"

The first notes of the karaoke man's song began. Recognizing the melody she stopped.

The salariman screwed up his face and started singing with more passion than talent.

At last the stranger swivelled round to pay attention. He leaned on the bar to watch the show.

On the final note, the singer bowed again while his companions applauded him.

The woman clapped too.

"It's such a beautiful song. I always try to imagine what it all means. _Hito wa, nagarete dokodoko you ku no, hana o sakasoyo_."

"Why don't you just ask?"

"Oh, no," she said as he reached around, preparing to accost a local for translation.

"No, it's something I try to imagine - I don't need to know.

"Sometimes I hear a song in another language, and I think _how fabulous_. _I don't know what it's saying but I bet its got some beautiful, sublime meaning_. And then I check the web for a translation and discover the words are just as trite as any shite canned Western pop song. So disappointing. Sometimes it's just better to stick with your own imaginings."

They slipped into another uncertain silence.

A slim song book had been left on the bar stall next to her. She picked it up and thumbed through it.

"Fancy a turn," she joked, breaking the levity.

His bushy eyebrows went up.

"I doubt they'd have anything I can sing in there."

She nodded.

"Most of it's fairly traditional stuff, I think - the English section's limited to Elvis and the Beatles pretty much."

He considered it. "Maybe not. None of those books ever have the songs I really want to sing, anyway."

"What would you sing?"

"Oh, plenty of stuff you've probably never heard of."

"Oh, really? I don't know whether to be offended by that or not. Singing, after all, is how I choose to make my living - no mean feat in this town, too, I should add."

He made a contrite face.

"Well, honestly - and this is embarrassing - I never really know the names to half the songs I like; I just remember certain lyrics."

"Try me."

"Umm, okay - but I'm not singing them." He did a sort of grimace, paused and despite his lack of enthusiasm about singing, launched half-heartedly into his first selection.

"_Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_-"

She snorted.

"_Cheek to Cheek_. Next - and could you sing it with less monotone, please."

He chuckled and thought briefly. "How about _I was a spaceman, I fly a starship cross the universe divide and when I reach the other side_…I don't know the rest of it."

His confidence had risen as had his voice. The party of salarimen were looking up curiously. She could imagine their thoughts. _Is the hairy gaijin going to perform_?

She repeated his words, tapping her fingers as she did. She flashed him a smile. "_The Highway Man_."

"_Stars flow like a river, carry me to you_."

Her eyes went wide, her mouth pursed. He had stumped her. She couldn't deny it.

"No - you got me there. Can you remember anymore?"

He shook his head, and she grimaced.

"That one seems irritatingly familiar."

He shrugged, then brightened.

"There's this one song - it's special to me, sort of reminds me who I was and who I no longer am. _I long to see the other side of things, h__ung on a bridge in search of something big-"_

_"I can't look down, I-I can only retreat. Who knows one day I'll dive into the sea,_" they ended together, ignoring the good-natured clapping that had erupted from the business party.

She grinned.

"I can't believe you know that song." Her face dropped. "David loved it - it was one of his favorites."

Bitterness crept into her voice. "So much for better the devil you know."

She fell silent again. As if sensing her mood, the man did not offer anymore song suggestions. He hadn't finished with the subject though.

"I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for that song."

He paused until she looked up.

"I realize we've only just met - you didn't ask my name, and I do not know yours - but I know I can offer you something ... something much better, much more special than a call from Yoko Ono."

She looked at him, bemused. Her gave a little shake of her head, her eyes holding a wild eagerness.

"There's only one thing I want…"

He nodded.

"David?"

"You have to understand, you'd have to trust me." There was warning in his voice. "There would be no going back and I can't explain how I will do it - not straightaway. I shouldn't even be offering you this. You can't know how many rules - some of my own making - I am violating."

For a moment, her face telegraphed her hope, but she forced herself to reign it in: to exercise caution. A caginess she hadn't felt all afternoon popped up. And confusion.

And anger.

"This is stupid. Why would you say something like that?" She reached down for her bag, nearly toppling off the stall in her haste "Who are you? What could you possibly hope to gain by this?"

The big man reached for her arm but not roughly.

"I can't make a full promise you'll see him ... but I can give you a fighting chance. You don't have that now.

"Believe me. Listen! The phone is ringing. This call's for you and there are only two ways you can answer it."

Hope battled fear. He watched the war play out in her eyes.

She swallowed slowly.

-oOo-

_**Note:** Once upon a time readers could measure their education by how many sly (and not so) classical references they could identify and understand in a text. Sadly, I haven't read half as much as I should, so sorry, no literary bread crumb trail for you follow. Much as I want to believe in a world where people are still inspired by the promise of a mystery which requires a little research to reveal and revel in, I can not rightly claim the brilliance of others as my own and would not want any artist to go unacknowledged. Full song titles and credits will accompany each chapter. These artists have certainly enriched the characters' lives; maybe there's something here you might like, too. There's still something to be said for being sly, though…_

Youtube's got most of these if you're looking for a way to while away some time.

_Imagine_, John Lennon  
_Hana_, Sachiko Kumagai  
_Cheek to Cheek_, Irving Berlin  
_The Highway Man_, Jimmy Webb  
_The Devil You Know_, Neil Finn


	2. Keep myself awake

Chapter 1:

**Keep myself awake**

"It's a temporary request," she fired hotly at the man seated before her.

Not just anyone's temporary request, _USS Enterprise _first officer Commander William T. Riker thought gloomily. He hadn't looked her in the eyes yet. The writing, swimming blurredly on the padd in front of him, held him captive. He hadn't been able to read anymore than the name. He didn't need to read the rest to know what the request was. He rubbed his face.

"Even if I sign off on this there's no guarantee Command will see it in the same light."

"You're worried about how this will look?" It wasn't just a question. The accusation hung palpably between them. "Is that what you're going to tell Ensign Trashec or Lieutenant A'suofa? Tell them they can't return to assist their homeworld because it might look bad?"

Commander Riker struggled to remember the last time Commander Deanna Troi, ship's counselor, had stared at him with as much hostility. The echo of shattering pottery jogged his memory.

At least on that occasion the situation had been equal to the anger. A woman just jilted for the second time by the love-of-her-life is justified in flinging as many priceless ceramics about as she wants, he figured. But those were personal circumstances. This time it was in a professional setting he had to disappoint her. As angry as she was, he knew she would keep her emotions under control. She knew it, too. Besides, it wasn't him she was really pissed off with.

"Counselor, I know the war has taken a considerable toll on many of this ship's crew...but with the major part of the Dominion force decimated and retreating, there is little left for Starfleet to do but mop up - a task better suited to ships fitted for that purpose. The Federation and Command are united in their determination for the fleet to put this behind it. It's time to rebuild. The mission to Ark11 is seen as a positive and necessary move and a chance for people to have something reaffirming to focus on." Riker recited the mission statement as faithfully as he could, but didn't bother effecting any conviction. She'd see straight through it.

_Come on, Deanna_, he thought wearily. _Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me._

"…a shallow, ego-stroking exercise designed to draw attention from the obvious," she almost spat. "Well, people are hurting. And it's no weakness to acknowledge that. The last thing I'd want to see on the news while I was surveying my wasted home is some perfectly attired, grinning Starfleet captain swanning around importantly at some fancy soirée on some forgotten, two-bit planet."

Riker decided to ignore the more inflammatory parts of her speech. He would use his discretion when making record of the meeting, just as he had for several other crew members who had stolen a march on her.

"We could – should - be doing so much more," she continued.

"You've done more than your fair share," he started. She interrupted him.

"But there's still so much more to be done. And it's not about fairness or sharing a burdon. Sometimes, shouldering more than your fair load is simply a thing to be borne."

"The rebuild will happen just as quickly without you, Deanna. I know you don't want to hear that, but its true. I have more than twenty requests, much the same as yours before me. I had hoped for your help convincing these people that the Ark mission is worthy."

Hoped? Who was he kidding? He had been relying on her help.

Troi was shaking her head. "If you force people to do something they believe is a frivolous waste of time and resources…"

"Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me Ark11 is a frivolous waste of effort?" he asked, forgetting his own intense desire to avoid _her_ eyes.

"Can you honestly tell me you don't harbor any reservations, either?" she returned. "Will, people can't help the way they feel. Morale can't be healed with a snap of the fingers, just because you want it. You, yourself are -," she stopped, her eyes narrowing. She scanned the desk - settling on the four coffee cups deposited amongst the stacked padds.

He lifted his head slowly, wondering when the interrogation would start. He'd done a damn good job holding her off this long. She was sizing him up, assessing him in her inscrutable manner - only this time, he was reading her emotions more easily than she was tapping into him and she was frustrated. He could see it in the furrowing of her brows, a slight pinched look about the mouth. Riker felt too exhausted to delight in the sense of power this realization might once have brought him.

"You know I'm okay," he warned. Nothing she found in him could contradict the statement.

"Nothing you're going to tell me about?"

"No."

A dull ache he had been trying to suppress re-emerged. She didn't miss his pained expression nor his fingers automatically rising to massage his temples.

"How long have you had the headache?"

He swept his hand over the table, indicating the piles of padds. "Probably for about as long as I've been wading through this lot."

She seemed to accept his explanation. "That many?" Sympathetic Troi was back, but only briefly. "Shouldn't sheer weight of numbers speak volumes?"

Riker wanted the conversation to be over - he needed it to end and quickly.

"Look, Deanna. Do you think Starfleet is making a mistake?"

She hesitated. "Yes. No." He contained his impatience as he waited for her to explain. She began pacing the room. "I understand how the opening on Ark11 provides people with the first real, post-war _triumph_." The emphasis she place on the last word was loaded with scorn.

"While the Federation quietly cleans up whatever active pockets of Dominion resistance remain, Ark11 opens in splendor, showing people, the war itself, with all its losses, was a temporary thing. An aberration. People throughout the quadrants must now pick up the pieces of their lives and worlds and get on with life again. We all want this. Some have already started - sweeping away the reminders." Her voice almost choked. She seemed stricken.

"But for many the memory is not so cleanly banished. Things have been lost, Will, and it hurts. It's going to keep hurting despite Command's insane assumption that applying a bandage equals instant healing."

She had turned from him and was facing the wall. "Many who survived the experience will find guilt in their fortune. Many are seeking to wrest back some feeling of control. Wanting to help with the final clean up, with the rebuild - that's perhaps one of the most valuable contributions and atonements people can see making for themselves…But a peaceful mission when so much is waiting to be done - some of us don't feel worthy of it."

She was talking about herself.

He had heard enough. Survivor guilt; it wasn't that he didn't understand it - he just didn't like seeing her this way. She'd explained away her anger, but he was no longer as willing to be convinced her belief the right thing for her to do now was to "just get on with life" without seeking some sort of additional counseling.

The parallel with his own situation didn't escape him and since he didn't want to think about _that _he turned his attention back to the reason she was here.

"It would be very easy for me to simply dismiss every one of these temporary transfer requests. There's no way they would all be approved at once anyway - but," he trailed off.

"Can you afford to let any of them go?"

"Command wants a fully operationally _Enterprise_. But perhaps I could pull a few strings…well, three or four maybe. Certainly no more than that. They won't be happy with the message the granting of so many requests would send. By dispatching the _Enterprise_ to Ark11, it's hoped people will start to feel the war truly is over. Once people have accepted that perhaps life will be easier to return to."

They were rational arguments. Having its flagship resume peacetime duties, fully crewed and operational, Command wanted to send its own message of safety and reassurance. It was a pity he didn't quite buy it.

The opening of Ark11 coming at this point, a decade off schedule, must have been received as a sign, Riker thought.

It was to be the perfect post-war extravaganza. More than half a century in planning and construction, the previously uninhabited planet had been Terra-formed into a potential cultural hub for the Federation - a place where every Federation member planet had a stake - a chance to display permanently its history, its cultures, its philosophies. Music, food, ecologies, live displays, a mix of recreated and authentic relics - huge complexes prepared for conventions, conferences, it could easily become the educational center point of the known universe. Every great university and college had reserved space for a campus. There were even holiday parks and culturally-themed vacation tours on offer.

Riker doubted Ark11 would ever top his list of all-time best shore-leave destinations, but plenty of other people would clamor to get to the planet. Federation lotteries held on every member planet offering the chance for lucky citizens to be at the opening month-long extravaganza had proven extremely popular.

Starfleet had seized on the opportunity to have a visible presence at the event. Archeology dilettante Jean-Luc Picard sailing in with all the majesty of the fleet's flagship was the perfect candidate for a fleet representative at the opening.

Scheduled plans to have the crew involved with the final sector clear ups were quickly scuppered when it became obvious the museum planet was gearing up for its massive celebration.

Knowing the plan was reasonable had not made it any easier to swallow. Once the crew had been briefed, Riker had noticed a tension building. Faces had become tightly drawn, undercurrents of resentment had swept through the ship. Riker had heard, for the first time ever, in the low speeches of fuming crew members, what could have amounted to open ship-wide mutiny.

He had faith in his team, however. He didn't doubt their ultimate loyalty to the ship's captain, but the stress of that loyalty was chafing. Riker had been relying on Troi's acute understanding of feelings on board. Her apparent defection to the other camp was a blow. He tried to ignore the ache above his eyes, and set about presenting his case.

"Would it help if I said this was just another part of the war effort?"

Troi had stopped pacing. Now, she sat in the chair opposite him, tapping her fingers in a tattoo of impatience on the only surface space left on the desk. She contemplated him, even as he forced himself to meet her gaze.

Riker shifted uneasily. She was suspicious, but oddly confused as well - he knew. He had been strengthening the block gradually over the last few weeks. Distracted by other concerns Troi must not have noticed, he decided. He was glad. She'd had deep shadows under her eyes for too long. The relief at the freeing of her own planet had had a brief alleviative affect, but the heightened stress of the crew had taken a heavy toll. She certainly hadn't gained any weight since returning from Betazed. Her uniform didn't hang off her now the way it had before she had been asked to assist on her home planet - but only because she had simply replicated a newer, smaller set.

Nothing he said seemed to help. At least she was no longer as listless as she had been. She had set her heart on returning to some of the worst affected war grounds. It had been expected. When that was taken from her, she had reacted angrily. Riker had been at a loss to know how to help his…friend. He'd had other reasons to want to keep his feelings from her, but part of him was a little disappointed. Normally, his pathetic attempts at hiding from her failed - usually miserably. What did it mean that she could no longer read him easily?

Finally, she sighed. "Okay. What's your big idea?"

"The Enterprise drew the short straw. The crew's too good to openly rebel against a direct order. We allow three or four - from the most devastated areas of the quadrant - to transfer temporarily – maybe A'suofa and Trashec. However, we let it be known – unofficially - that Command understands how the crew might feel about being asked to take on an odious journey to Ark11. Command recognizes the value of the ship that takes on the dirty job of getting on with life - essentially, the last and dirtiest of all wartime tasks."

"Drop the references to Command, Will - the crew needs to hear the truth from you."

"Does this mean you'll withdraw your request?"

She let him stew for several seconds before reaching for the padd he'd extended to her.

"I suppose this means I'll have to work with you a bit longer," she said, with mock severity. His flimsy, specious argument had swayed her with barely a flicker of suspicion.

"You've just made an old commander very happy," he replied. The words just slipped off his tongue. _Old commander? Happy?_ The irony struck him too late.

If Troi had caught on, she wasn't giving anything away.

He'd got her on side, more easily than he had anticipated. He'd headed off a potentially damaging situation and regained an ally, but all he wanted was for this woman to leave, before the strain of being around her became too apparent to hide.

He let out his breath in relief when she rose and moved to the door.

As it slid open she turned to study him. Somehow, something about this conversation had dissatisfied both of them. "Are you sure you're okay, Will? You don't need to see Beverly?"

"I'm fine, Deanna." He made a point of turning back to his work, signaling the meeting was at an end.

She didn't press harder, and when the door had closed on her, he pressed back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling trying to will the tension from his shoulders. The cup of coffee he had replicated before she entered had gone cold. Today had been the most difficult so far.

_Go to Beverly_, he thought sourly. He knew what Beverly'd say if he talked to the doctor. And it would be good advice. Trouble was…Deanna _was_ the source of his problem, and central as she was to him - to the problem - he couldn't put this on her at the moment. Now was not the time.

The hum of the ship, the comfort of his chair, his own lost thoughts conspired against him, lulling him and preparing him for a luxurious, _restful_ sleep. The caffeine, then, had been no help.

Sleep, please, he could have begged.

_And, suddenly, sleep is with him, behind him, leaning into his neck, a warm breath against his skin. He can smell her perfume, musk and sophistication._

_Light fingertips brush the skin on his shoulders. His chest burns where she lays a palm flat against it. Eyes closed, savoring her nearness, no memory of the concerns he's had - some other time._

_Light whispers tickle his cheek. He murmurs his appreciation as she drapes arms over his shoulders and rests her head on his against his heart. He sighs. Sleep is heavenly. He imagines her fingers playfully engaged with his own, as she gracefully rounds the chair. _

_Leaning into him, floating fabric falls against body, electrifying him. He desires contact, the feel of her against him, as he stands, hungrily seeking the base of her neck, each fingertip, her mouth. His hands trace the contours of her back._

_On the table he knows instinctively is clear, he gently folds her back, one hand tightly clutching hers. She arches into him, shivering as his hand grazes the sensitive skin along her inner thigh._

_Heaven will be complete when he's complete - in touch with her body and soul. Greedily his mind opens to allow her in, eager for the feeling which will flood him when they entwine wholly._

_His eyes open, seeking hers. And, suddenly, there is no air to breathe. Black holes repel him into himself. He screams and recoils. There is nothing. And, although they are so closely together and her body is flesh, he feels nothing but ashes._

_She is there…and he is alone. No sense of her. Touching is useless. The woman closest to him is a stranger and the feel of her is disgustingly, sickeningly wrong._

_Tears travel from her empty eyes down her cheeks. He wants to cry. They disentangle. They…_

"Bridge to Commander Riker."

Riker shuddered awake at the chirping of his comm badge, breathing heavily and blinking as his eyes readjusted to the light.

"Bridge to Commander Riker," the insistent tones of the ship's android second officer were as effective as the red alert klaxon.

Riker knew the futility of acting on an uncharacteristic impulse to ignore the hail. He acknowledged Data.

"Commander, Captain Picard requests your presence in the ready room, sir."

The first officer rubbed the feeling of sand out of his eyes. His android friend would not detect anything in his voice indicating the terror which still gripped him, nor the sadness and worry which squeezed his heart painfully.

The dreams were increasing in intensity and frequency, and they always ended the same gut-wrenching way. He should be prepared for it now, but when it came, it was as though he was in another world with no memory of the horror awaiting him.

He had no idea what it meant. He only knew he was scared, but of what, he couldn't be sure.

Talking to Troi was out. Not yet. Not until he understood more. The dreams' suggestive elements would probably amuse her, but what would she say about the other more frightening aspect - the threat to their tie, their bond.

Riker seldom felt inclined to discuss with anyone his relationship with Troi. The bond's invisibility and Troi's natural abilities usually accounted for the uncanny understandings they reached which may have garnered an outsider's attention.

Neither of them drew attention to their slightly peculiar arrangement. Even their friends knew not to question them directly, though some had their suspicions, Riker suspected. Somehow, the bond was as important to him as air, but like air not something that one regularly discussed - nor consciously thought about.

On the whole, Riker had rather enjoyed having a special metaphysical link to Troi. The thing was too pure, too sacred to be smug about. But it was a source of pride and a thing he basked in by himself. Sure, they never really did much with it, but at some point Riker had realized he was completely comfortable knowing it would always be a part of his life. Wouldn't it? Like air…

_You only think about conserving air when there's a problem with your current supply, _a wicked little voice whispered.

There was nothing wrong with the ship's environmental controls. Riker had started shivering for an entirely different reason.

-oOo-

/watch?vNRxfOYFVjP4


	3. Why does my heart feel?

Chapter 2

**Why does my heart feel?**

"Just in time, Number One," Captain Jean-Luc Picard greeted the first officer on his entrance to the ready room.

Riker's arrival coincided with the faint whir of the replicator.

"Drink?" the Captain offered hospitably. The first officer shook his head and moved into the room, waiting for the other man to retrieve his cup. Neither commented on the complete mess of pots, baskets and primitive knives and tools on the floor. When Picard had settled in his chair, he lifted the cup to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he peered over its rim at Riker.

Riker was standing stiffly with his arms behind his back. There was none of the animation in his face Picard was used to seeing when the first officer was in good spirits. Not a happy Riker, then.

He took a sip of his tea. "More temporary transfer requests?" he asked, sure he could pinpoint the source of Riker's seriousness.

Briefly, the officer's stance relaxed.

"No, sir; I think I've come up with a solution to stem that particular problem."

Picard contained his surprise - not at his officer's abilities - of which he had supreme confidence - but that his guess had been off. His curiosity would have to wait for satisfaction; Picard knew if there was a problem with the ship, Riker wouldn't hesitate to tell him, so whatever the problem was, it was most likely personal - and the captain considered unsubtle prying beneath him.

"Well, I have news which might raise a few spirits. We're about to receive some additional duties on this mission. Ones that ought to mollify certain crew members."

"Unless you're going to tell me peace has broken out between heaven and hell, I don't believe anything else we do on this mission will impact on how people feel about it."

Picard smiled grimly. "Oh, ye of little faith, Number One," he said, with none of the light-heartedness that had marked his welcome.

Riker didn't miss the implication in the sudden change to Picard's tone of voice.

"Something's happened. What? Where?"

Picard nodded at a padd in front of him, which Riker picked up. The captain put his cup down, getting down to business.

"A civilian vessel heading to Ark11 has disappeared. Last contact was sixty-seven hours ago - a routine message originating from its plotted course. The _Bounty_ should have arrived at Ark11 yesterday. It failed to register at its destination point and is not responding to hails."

"There've been no reports of aggressor ships in this area of the quadrant," Riker said thoughtfully as he scanned the padd. "Are there any possible leads on what's happened to the _Bounty_?"

Picard shook his head.

"No distress signal, no personal communications, nothing. The vessel is a private trading and transport ship. The shipping manifest listed fifteen, mostly humanoid crew, on board at its last port of call."

"And there's no possibility the crew has simply plotted a new course?"

"It's unlikely. The ship was delivering a cargo of considerable value to several of the exhibitors for the Ark11 gala. I don't know many honest traders willing to put their professional reputations at risk by inexplicably altering their plans and upsetting valued clients."

"What do we know about these traders?" Riker asked.

"The information we have at the moment is only preliminary. I'm expecting a more complete dossier shortly but we won't be able to make a start on the investigation proper until we have dealt with one other concern."

"What?" Riker asked, wondering what could take precedence over an investigation of this nature.

"A sector-wide warning has been issued to all vessels. A number of smaller private transporters are carrying understandably nervous passengers bound for Ark11 and have expressed concerns. A number of these passengers are academics or have status and official positions on their home worlds."

"And it would be disastrous if the opening of Ark11 was marred by the disappearance of the ambassador of, say, Betazed," said Riker, finishing for the captain.

Picard's left eyebrow shot up at Riker's choice of example.

"I take it there is no one of particular note on the _Bounty_," Riker continued, ignoring the captain's expression.

"Quite," Picard replied dryly. "A moratorium on ships without suitable defense systems has been declared in this sector. That won't affect the larger transporters, but several smaller ones in our vicinity can not proceed to Ark 11. The _Enterprise, _therefore, is to extend its welcome and offer safe passage to anyone who desires it. This mission has become, literally now, about making people feel safe in their universe again."

He sipped from the cup before continuing. "The _Enterprise_ is to head to a rendezvous point at Starbase 313, where it is scheduled to pick up passengers from at least nine transporters following this course to Ark11."

"And you want me to?"

"Play the part of host, for the time being, until we have more to go on in this investigation." Picard smiled. "Counselor Troi will greet the latter parties of passengers but I thought you might be particularly interested in the first several groups we are scheduled to meet. Somehow I think you'll find plenty to talk about."

"They're musicians," he added when he saw Riker look askance.

The first officer felt relief wash over him. Relief to have an investigation to sink his energy into. Relief that Picard hadn't set him up for an evening with Zakdorn nuns or Grazer toe dancers. It was difficult to be certain with the captain's occasionally peculiar sense of humor.

But, musicians. He usually found something to talk about with musicians of any species or planet. He might not _like _all the music he heard, but there was more to music than facile aural pleasure.

The chance to focus on other people, perhaps to learn something new about an area of his life that didn't center around work _or her _could be a godsend.

Picard watched the tall man exit the room with more energy than he'd entered, pleased he had been able to effect such a remarkable change.

Satisfied, he reached for his cup and leaned back in his chair again. The contents of the cup were long gone. Gone and not savored, Picard thought sadly - as though Riker's moroseness had jumped ship to a new victim. He surveyed the unsorted collection of artifacts on the floor before him. The task of having them all labeled and arranged in time for his lecture was daunting enough, without factoring in the management of Starfleet's most prized vessel.

As much as he would have enjoyed the task he assigned his first officer - being a keen (though average) musician himself - the amount of preparation he still had to make for his part in one of the opening conferences on Ark11 left him little time for additional distractions.

"Computer, music. Something to match the mood."

"Request mood clarification."

"Uplifting melancholy?"

It was a game Picard had been playing with the computer for some time. Teaming seemingly incompatible emotions and asking the computer to supply music to fit the quixotic combinations.

It had, in the past, steered him in some surprisingly interesting musical directions. This one shouldn't tax the computer unduly, Picard mused. Melancholic, for his first officer's downcast demeanor, uplifting, because Picard himself certainly didn't want to stay feeling depressed for too long - not when he had an hour-long lecture to prepare.

Without preamble music filled the room. Picard listened briefly to the computer's interpretation of his request, which, disappointingly this time, seemed only to express melancholy.

"Why indeed, Mr Riker, does your heart feel so bad?" Picard murmured, unconsciously taking in the song's opening lament, as he started rechecking his notes and preparing to add more. The song must have been some variety of historic synthpop, he decided; not a genre or time period he was at all keen on.

Just as he was about to cut off the song, the musical key changed from minor fall to glorious major lift. Picard grinned.

"Oh, well done, computer. You win again. Very uplifting."

The computer knew not to answer.

--ooo- -oOo- -ooo-

"So once a hymn is started, it can not be stopped. It simply must be sung to the end. Running out of time is no excuse -"

"Really? Fascinating," Riker murmured through gritted teeth, hoping the sarcasm was not apparent to his guests.

"But, of course no kirtan is allowed during Akhand Path," Riker's companion continued cheerfully, absorbed in his topic.

The happy task was not turning out as he had envisaged, Riker reflected peevishly, as he led his guests to their quarters. Picard's sweeping assumptions may just have confined his first officer to several days of (and Riker was surprised that even he could ascribe the adjective) boring musical discussion.

He had had to hastily reevaluate his own personal beliefs. Musicians - yes, even Klingon opera composers - he could tolerate on an almost indefatigable basis. This was because at some point, the talk ended and the music began. Or the music kicked things off and the talking just rounded things out.

But, and he would take pains to point this out to Captain Picard, there was a not inconsiderable difference between musicians _and ethnomusicologists_. _Or_ _social musicologists._ Or what ever they wanted to call themselves.

At the moment, his ire was directed (albeit internally) at the particularly small and unkempt man walking beside him.

Dr Rodney Montgomery, comparative Terran sacred music musicologist specializing in the development of musical expressions in the Sikh religion in the 16th century, had latched on to Riker like a dog on a bone, leaving the officer little time to assess the others who had beamed aboard.

The doctor had monopolized Riker's time, as the officer dropped off passengers at their new quarters one by one.

"Naturally, I'd love to give you an example," Dr Montgomery was chuckling, "but you can see once I start I wouldn't be able to stop until -"

A larger man moved from the back of the group and put his hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"I'm sure the crew of this fine ship would all like an opportunity to hear your theories about kirtan, Monty. You'll have plenty of time to prepare something - a lecture perhaps," the big man looked imploringly at Riker. "And a suitable venue to deliver the talk," he added when Riker nodded slightly.

"There are certainly people on this ship who would welcome the chance to hear an eminent scholar talk about a subject such as yours," Riker said, skirting around the fact he still couldn't work out what the doctor's subject was. Thankfully they had arrived at the last of the guests' cabins, which would house the members of Dr Montgomery's group.

"You should find this room comfortable enough to plan your presentation, and, of course, if anything is lacking, just let me know," Riker said ushering the doctor through the door.

The big man waited until the door had closed behind Dr Montgomery, before he stepped in beside Riker.

The other guests - six altogether – seemed content to trail along as they moved on to the next cabin.

"I do apologize for Monty," the man said quietly. "He's very driven and single-minded when he's fixated on a particular topic."

"Qualities that probably make him a superb scholar, I bet," Riker replied.

"Undoubtedly," the man agreed. "The name's Sudamen, by the way."

Introductions had been hasty, as Riker herded the guests from the transporter room. The doctor's group had been one of four to come on board. He appreciated the stranger's unaffected manner. Riker had finely honed skills when it came to remembering names and faces, but he appreciated the fact the man wasn't too proud to assume he was unforgettable.

The large man was from Caldos. After all Riker _had_ carefully examined the guest list, familiarizing himself with basic details about members of the group. The man was from Caldos, but his accent was not the typical Scots brogue Riker associated with the planet. Sudamen was the group's delegation head. The members of his party were representatives of the Dunedin Institute, an educational establishment which focused on Terran-influenced music in the Federation. The list had not mentioned what his specialty was.

"Organization and appreciation," the man replied when Riker put the question to him. "I'm in charge of getting this lot safely to Ark11, since the institute has doubts about their ability to direct themselves." His eyes had a definite twinkle to them.

"For some reason, the institute wants to see that half of these jokers make it back fairly intact - they weren't too fussy on just how intact - that's the organization bit. And they all tend to get a wee bit sulky if they don't get a daily doses of praise and admiration - that's where the appreciation comes in."

Someone spluttered and Sudamen grinned.

"They're a tetchy bunch, commander. They'll probably need sequestering the entire journey. Well, perhaps just Monty," he conceded when someone else protested.

At least they were genuinely friendly, Riker decided, as one-by-one he dropped the men and women off at their cabins. No one particularly stood out and except for Dr Montgomery and Sudamen, none had vied for a conversation with the officer. Instead, the scholars had followed Riker, speaking sotto voce amongst themselves, as he led them through the starship.

Their ages and interests were varied. The musical periods they studied and had made their lives' works were diverse and not even closely convergent.

In addition to Dr Montgomery, there was a twenty-second century retorq expert; a Byzantine Era specialist; a post-first contact lecturer (with particular interest in Vulcan influences on Northern Hemisphere colonial folk songs); a modern period comparative musicks grad student (Riker was embarrassed to realize he was no longer au courant with what passed muster with today's youth); a millennial anthropologist and a Baroque/Classical period musicologist. With such variance, the first officer was certain, the task of chaperoning these people would not actually be too onerous. Picard might actually regret not having more to do with them, he thought; on the face of it, they seemed more his cup of tea.

Finally, just Sudamen and one other guest remained - he couldn't remember which period she focused on. He stopped at two doors on either side of the corridor.

"These will be your quarters during your time with us. I'll arrange for your group to be given a tour of the ship after you have had time to freshen."

"Thank you." The big man casually glanced about him before he spoke again, the good-natured smile on his face replaced with one of concern. "Commander, this ship that's gone missing – Starfleet doesn't really think there's a greater threat in the area, really? This moratorium is just playing it safe, right?"

"The fleet takes seriously any threat to any Federation members. Until it can be established what happened to the _Bounty_, we prefer not to take any chances."

Sudamen nodded and shook the first officer's hand, but his companion, who had remained quiet throughout exchange, hung back.

Riker had noticed her looking at the ship and its crew as they had walked to the quarters section. Her eyes had been wide and her cheeks curiously sucked in, as though she were biting on them. She had done a good job of not dropping her jaw in awe. Come to think of it, she had stuck rather close to Sudamen, he realized.

She was pretty. "If you need any help with anything," Riker said, hoping to put her at ease, "don't hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you," she said, with more confidence than he had anticipated. Her hand swept a long strand of loose dark curls behind an ear. She paused, visibly steeling herself to speak further.

"I wonder if there is a music room that can be made available for me to practice?"

"Absolutely," Riker answered. "I must have misunderstood. I wasn't aware any of you were performing at the gala."

"Oh, there'll be an element of performance in everyone's presentations, but Lark's been honored with a small part in one of the lesser Terran ceremonies," Sudamen said somewhat proudly, Riker thought.

The woman reddened. "Just a small part," she said. "As much as the period is reviled for its excesses, millennial culture seems to fascinate some people," she confided. "I don't like to talk about the subject unless people have experienced it as authentically as possible."

"Therefore, she always starts with a concert." Sudamen had a soft spot for this woman. "It's quite an honor for a Coldasian," the man went on. "It's absurd, we know, but when it comes to our shared heritage with Terrans today, we often feel like the poor cousin everybody tolerates. Oh, of course, we have gone in our own direction, and our modern cultures are respected. But Lark, here, in her tiny field, is equal to any earth-born millennial scholar - in fact, I've seen Terrans who've spent their entire careers studying the period defer to her judgment. But the talent she deserves the most recognition for is her ability to teach the subject. Good lord! Students line up hours ahead of her lectures just to get a seat."

The woman, Lark, shook her head, smiling. "You're too prone to exaggeration, Sudamen."

To Riker, she said. "Concerts are the best way I have to share what I know. I like to involve everyone in the process. Whether its playing with me and singing or just being there. It's not always that easy - I find breaking down perceptions surrounding older music the most frustrating part. Once people accept the idea that the millennial generation had something valid to say, and very eloquent, beautiful imaginative ways of expressing themselves, they get past some of the ugliness of the age. It's really not the music which people react so strongly to anyway - more the other things for which that particular time is known for."

"I'm not completely familiar with millennial music," Riker admitted. "I find more to enjoy in some of the earlier musical movements of that century - jazz in its infancy," he said, answering her quizzical look.

"Ah, yes, but... I tend to favor the Dublin definition of the millennial age, which doesn't wholly preclude early jazz movements." Seeing his look of incomprehension, she clarified herself. "The Dublin set decided the age really started when people in the twentieth century began to demonstrate a wider awareness of the approaching Year 2000. Of course, I favor it because it means I get to study periods of culture which wouldn't fall into the pathetically specific general Sorbonne theory of millennialism."

Riker shifted on his feet. "Right," he said slowly.

"Are you a musician, Mr…"

"I'm sure the commander is very busy, Lark..." The large man had begun. He stopped when Riker started speaking.

"Riker. Will Riker. And, yes - I've been known to play…but not at a professional level," he said hurriedly.

"Well, Will, I am Lark and jazz is not my forte, but I'd be honored if you wanted to join me at a practice. Perhaps there's something I can learn from you? And maybe, I can introduce you to something new."

She was pretty and shy and friendly. And just as passionate about her area of expertise as Dr Monty. And young, surprisingly young to be so obviously respected. Riker was intrigued.

"If any of your crew want to join me, I'd welcome them," she said, oblivious to where Riker's thoughts were straying.

"And, if it doesn't interfere with the running of this ship, I'd love the chance to entertain people with a concert," she said hesitantly, as if she was sure the response would be a negative one. "It would be a good opportunity for a dress rehearsal."

"I can't foresee any problems arranging that," Riker said, privately wondering if the crew would welcome or resent the offer.

The millennial period was, as she had said, rather reviled for its apparent excesses. Much of the music Riker recognized from the period epitomized shallowness and vanity.

It had been a time of mass production values, focused on the bottom line and the drive to amass money - talent meant having "the package" which was more focused on aesthetic appeal than real ability (Riker remembered the phrase from one of the few texts he had read about the period).

Oh, well, it certainly wouldn't be a compulsory event, he decided. People would make their own minds about attending. Riker was willing to join her at practice though, simply to get to know her better.

Nothing in his conscience prickled. At least, that's what he told himself.

-oOo-

_Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? _Moby /watch?vfqLvbpcsPj4


	4. Stupid

Chapter 3:

**Stupid**

_Captain's log supplementary_

_The_ Enterprise_ left the orbit of Starbase 313 three hours ago, with a full complement of guests traveling to the Ark11 opening. Our estimated time of arrival has been revised however, as we have stopped for Lieutenant Commander Data to assess an unusual variance of space debris at the co-ordinates Y6-38-061-23. I have granted the Lt. Comm an hour to assess definite patterns found in the debris to determine if it could be from the remains of a destructed vessel._

_The location casts doubt on whether it could be the _Bounty_ - these coordinates would put the ship well off its intended course - but I feel it worth the time to eliminate this area from future searches. Lt. Comm Data assures me this is all the time he needs to gather evidence to deduce what the remains are, however, it is likely to be insufficient time to determine if it is the _Bounty._ Bearing in mind command priorities – that we have our guests safely to their respective ceremonies with plenty of time to spare – the hour is all that can be allowed. An hour, however, will also allow time for sensors to sweep the area to determine how these debris patterns were caused. _

_Our guests have been informed the ship is making a routine maintenance stop, but regardless, and considering the circumstances, they appear to be a convivial mix of travelers. I do not anticipate a problem arising. The experience of traveling on a Starfleet vessel appears to be a new and celebratory event for many of them and an unscheduled stop has not been questioned._

Picard refrained from recording his final thoughts - that the party appeared to have started well and truly before they had reached their destination. He didn't begrudge his newly acquired passengers their excitement, much as some of the crew might grumble about the some of their inappropriate (translation: disrespectful) behavior. Some of those guests had come at the insistence of their governing bodies...had come from worlds all but destroyed by the Dominion's ruthless quest to stamp its control over the galaxy. Who was he to begrudge their happiness if they were making the most of their unexpected ride on a Starfleet vessel? So long as they didn't interfere with the running of his ship, he wished them well.

He went back to tinkering with a collection of tools and baskets he intended to display at his lecture. Using a tiny brush he carefully flicked invisible specks of dust from an nephrite adz. A chirp brought his attention back to the present and he answered the hail from his second officer.

"Yes, Mr Data?"

"Captain, I have completed my analysis of the debris fragments I was able to obtain."

Holding the adz up and squinting with one eye, Picard replied casually. "What can you tell me?"

"In origin, the pieces were manufactured, sir, however all show the stress of being exposed to an explosive force," Data said, immediately eliminating the possibility the debris was mere natural space junk. Picard continued his delicate brush movements, if a little more slowly.

"All the pieces I tested emitted tritium isotopes in unusually high amounts, sir. It is not inconceivable that the fragments were part of a larger artificial construction that was torn apart by an explosion caused by a tritium reaction."

Picard froze. He - very carefully - laid the adz on a thick blanket on his desk. He knew he wasn't going to like how his second officer would answer his next question.

"Are you suggesting these fragments are part of a larger object which was exploded by a _nuclear_ detonation?" he asked slowly and precisely.

"Yes, sir. There are other possible explanations, however, I consider an explosion to be the most likely based on the evidence at hand."

The captain's forefinger tapped the side of his nose a he 'hmmmed' to himself. "Data, are you able to estimate when this explosion occurred?"

Picard's knowledge of pre-first contact nuclear physics was rusty. He struggled to remember the half-life calculations involved in tritium reactions. He had a bad feeling the android would tell him archaic manufactured space debris should have only minute traces of readable radioactive material, if anything at all.

"There's no way this debris could be the leftovers of a nasty incident about, say, three hundred years ago?" he asked sourly.

Data's emotion chip interpreted the statement and tone accurately. It was a joy to have the android answer adroitly: "I am afraid not, Captain. This debris is from a _fresh _nasty incident."

"How fresh?"

"From the isotope breakdown, about approximately 78 hours, 4 minutes, 13 seconds and 11.32 hundredths of a second fresh, sir."

Something about Data's assuredness bothered Picard, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He scratched his head as he tried to work it out.

"Sir, I was attempting humor." The android's voice effected concern.

Picard held back a groan. "Timing, Mr Data," he lectured. "Remember, timing is as essential to a joke as the punch line."

"Yes, sir. I am endeavoring to determine appropriate intervals of-."

Picard coughed.

"In response to your question, Captain, without knowing precise quantity values of tritium involved in the initial reaction I can not make an accurate estimate. However, an analysis of the trajectory pattern of the debris and its general rate of speed will allow me to make an approximate evaluation, I believe. And I will be able to determine if the explosion was from an internal or external force with a more thorough investigation, sir."

"Any luck determining if the debris is from the _Bounty_?"

"Not from this, captain."

Picard tapped his chin this time.

"You realize what this implies, don't you, Data?"

"Tritium warheads were outlawed more than two hundred and fifty years ago, sir. Large scale mining petered out less than ten years later. Today, tritium is a controlled element. All mining operations must adhere to strict monitoring policies and the distribution of tritium is closely regulated. It is still used in some medical procedures, but only rarely and always in exceptional circumstances."

"Hmmm. Would a tritium warhead still be obtainable these days?" Picard asked, more to himself, than the android.

"I will research the topic, sir."

"Excellent, Mr Data. Unfortunately, further investigation of anymore evidence will have to wait. Do what you can until we can get back here for a more thorough examination of the scene."

Whether or not they had inadvertently stumbled over the remains of the vanished _Bounty, _this find would require investigation. If Data's theory about a _recent _nuclear explosion was correct, there would be another problem on hand - and Picard was anxious to find out just how much of a problem.

-oOo- -oOo- -oOo-

Ceilings on spaceships were long overdue for a decorative overhaul. After two hours spent supine on his bed, fully clothed, with the lights on full, Riker had had plenty of time to contemplate the slate gray surface above him.

Recessed lights were discreetly pocketed amongst thin synthetic pipes inset halfway into the ceiling material. The pipes crisscrossed the room forming star patterns.

Those pipes formed part of the ship's bloodlines - one way information and power were circulated to the organs of the ship. Some of those cables probably passed through her room, connecting them in yet some other unknowing manner, he thought wildly.

He had willed himself to remain in a fixed position with his palms flat against the mattress. His arms had long since stopped registering the pain of being forced to hold the pose.

The sheets had been kicked into a heap at the end of the bed, but he was still sweating. Even as he forced his eyes to stare into the light above him, the battle was nearly over and his body begged to be allowed to fall into the sleep it desperately craved.

To concentrate he tried to recall as much about the dreams as possible – the look on her face when she inevitably realized they were strangers; the emptiness of her eyes; the hollow feeling he had in his chest; the horror of mentally reaching for her and finding nothing.

There was fire in his feet, in his legs, in his groin, in his stomach. An invisible weight pressed cruelly on his chest and his heart was pounding to escape. Suddenly it was all too much and he gasped, swinging upright as though he was surfacing - a swimmer trapped underwater seconds too long.

His chest screamed as he sucked in the air.

Unthinking, he sprang from the bed and starting pacing. His nails dug in as he clenched his fists.

"This is ridiculous," he snarled finally and he strode from the room without a backward glance.

Outside the corridor was empty. It was ship's night. Most of the ships inhabitants were probably tucked up tightly enjoying the luxury of a good night's rest. Riker stalked along, shying away from the occasional silhouette of a distant crew member on duty. The airy quiet blended with the faint hum of the ship's engines. Noises, the odd clank here and there, the hiss of a door opening and closing, carried far enabling him to avoid human activity.

He lost track of where he was heading – unusual, as the first officer would claim to know the ship better than he'd ever known any person...or lover. He wandered, almost dazed, up corridors, down corridors, onto turbolifts, seeking the loneliest, emptiest corners of the ship. The quieter it got, the more an ocean-like roar thundered in his ears, until he no longer doubted he was alone, drifting in water that surrounded him in every direction. So much sky, so much sea and the sensation the weight of the water was a hand gasping his ankle, gently but firmly pulling him down. Just one last chance to see her face, to look into her eyes, to know the comfort of being part of something greater than himself – that would be his dying plea.

His pace slowed, and unexpectedly, in the middle of an lonely hall - just like that, with the thought of her smiling face - he came to. He was on a deck he couldn't immediately identify. He took in his surroundings. The brushed metallic walls, the dusky mauve carpet which lined some of ship's hallways. His senses - heightened after the long sleep walk – registered the thrum of the ship again. His body was no longer burning, instead he was chilled. He hugged his arms around his body, trying to orient himself.

He couldn't continue to function this way, he knew. Nights of interrupted, blissful then terrifying sleep were going to affect his work if they weren't already. He'd been snappish, less tolerant and dead to the feelings of most of his subordinates for days. He'd controlled himself well. It had been a good fight. But the risk that something might happen, that he might do something rash because of _this situation_ was too strong. There was only one person even remotely capable of helping him deal with himself. Unconsciously, he turned toward in the direction of a turbolift. Awake or not, he could orient himself to her anywhere in space. She'd know instinctively he was coming. She'd be ready for him. His pace quickened.

He turned a corner and was insight of the lift at the far end. But, as he neared it he became aware of a new sound breaking the night silence, a dull, penetrating, and constant thump, thump-thump, thump thump-thump. It wasn't difficult to pinpoint. The closer he got to a door halfway along, the stronger the booming sound was. Momentarily confused, Riker put his hand to the wall and pulled back suddenly when he felt the wall pulsate in time to the noise.

He had come to on the holodeck and the noises he could hear were emanating from a suite which was obviously being used _dangerously_.

He saw red.

Was it some primal instinct which made him storm to the door and bang furiously?

He could have easily overridden any lock on the door. Instead he tried a more physical approach, although how much of it was method and how much was pure rage was difficult to determine. Using his fists to pound, he started to bellow.

"Get this motherfucking door open instantly. _I said open this _goddamned _door now,_" he yelled, feeling heat creep into his face.

He was going to continue the assault as long as it took. So when the panels suddenly whisked open and a woman's face appeared in their place, he was unprepared.

"Hey, guys, granddad's come to the part-…" she was saying as his fist swung. She ducked remarkably quickly. The first officer's hand pummeled the air where her face had just been.

Riker recoiled in horror. It took every once of honor in his body to force himself to look back at her. "I am so sorry," he started, reaching a hand out to her shoulder. "Are you okay? Ma'am?" The woman stood up, and Riker's evening continued its downward slide.

"Mr Riker?" The millennial expert, Lark, stared at him. Behind her, the room was darkened but for a few red and green lights dotted in the background. The light cast allowed Riker to see outlines of people moving about with the music. This was definitely the source of the racket, although now the sound was not muffled Riker could hear a melody accompanying the beat.

Seeing Lark was unharmed, and did not appear unduly concerned he asked, "What the hell is going on here?" raising his voice to speak above the cacophony.

He watched her lips move to form the answer, "Do I really have to spell it out for you?" Riker shook his head disbelieving what he thought she had said.

He blinked. "I'm sorry. Did you just ask me if you had to spell out what's going on here? Good god," he added in frustration. "Computer, shut this racket up, NOW."

Forgetting his role as perfect host, he pulled Lark roughly from the room, as voices started to complain behind her. She didn't seem perturbed. In fact, considering how shy she usually seemed every time he encountered her since welcoming her on board a day ago (on tour of the ship, in a rec room, in Ten-Forward) she was rather nonplussed. The first officer felt put out.

"Do you know how much noise you were making?" he asked failing to keep the anger from his voice.

"Do you know how long it took me to work out how to get it that loud?" she replied, serene.

Riker stared at her, not sure what approach to take.

"For some reason the only way I could get the speakers to work properly was to disengage some sort of safety level protocol," she went on innocently. "Actually, I had some help, - one of your ensigns worked out how to make them work."

His brain struggled to comprehend what she was saying; the hour was late and despite the adrenaline rush of interrupting an obnoxious party and nearly decking one of the ship's honored guests Riker was dead on his feet. "Can you just tell me what's going on?" he asked helplessly. "Is this one of your concerts…because I can tell you now if that's how you usually conduct them there's no place on this ship for one."

She looked upset.

"Oh, no. No, that wasn't one of mine…let me explain -."

"Yes. Please do," he said with acid politeness.

"I've been getting to know some of the people who live and work on board the _Enterprise_. I wanted to illustrate a point, and when someone described the holodeck to me, I thought it would be a superb way to recreate a millennial venue atmosphere."

"So, in other words, a concert."

"Yes - but not my own. Using the data banks Ensign Alijamo was able to program a concert featuring real millennial musicians."

"And the noise?"

"Speaker technology was still in a fairly primitive form around the millennium. The sound of a speaker today compared to a speaker from 300 years ago is incomparable. The sound reproduction quality may be worse, but it's still a useful experience for insight into what the music would have sounded like."

"Unfortunately," she frowned. "The holodeck program must have created damaged speakers because they wouldn't work properly. It wasn't until someone tried deactivating the safety constraints, that the music could be heard properly."

She was looking him in the eyes. Her tone was serious. Her expression proclaimed innocence. Riker didn't buy it.

"The purpose of the safety protocol, _Miss_ Lark, is precisely for that reason - safety. If the computer would not allow you to play your music as loud as you wanted then it must have assessed the volume as too loud. It was trying to protect you or in this case, your hearing."

"Ah, but," she said waving her finger, "the speakers would not play _anything _at any level."

"Perhaps _your music _offended the computer's sense of good taste." Riker didn't usually get a kick out of being nasty. Inwardly he wondered where this bastard was coming from.

Needless to say, he wasn't expecting the response he got. Lark threw up her arms in mock disgust. "Good lord! Et tu, pc?" she cried out theatrically to the hall. "Is everyone prejudiced against the millennium? I protest! We have stupid, stupid soulless blah forced on us today and yet we scorn one of the greatest ages of musical development ever…"

She turned and took in the non-amusement on Riker's face. "Omigod…you should see yourself!" She started laughing so hard Riker wondered if she was going to fall over. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

"You have to understand, Mr Riker. It's just that it makes me so happy." The joyful sincerity in her voice couldn't be faked. "I get...electrified...by music – I don't know how else to describe it. Using your holo suite I was able to recreate my dream concert. We don't play with toys at the Institute," a wistful expression spread over her face. "The council is a tad parsimonious when it comes to having fun - so to have the opportunity to arrange to have whomever I want sing, what I want sung, where I want it sung and when…"

Her joy was infectious. Rather than repel the officer, Riker couldn't help but be intrigued by what had so animated the woman.

"Oh, I know the volume was unacceptable," she said airily. "I guess I just wanted to push the boundaries of this old bucket. Besides, the volume was fairly moderate by Y2K standards. And, your crew seemed so interested. Some of them were actually enjoying it, I think. Do you know what it's like to find people who can also get genuinely swept up in something you're passionate about?"

His anger had abated; all that was left was the intrigue and desire to know just a bit more about this woman - to step into that room. If there was something else he had been planning to do, well, that could wait, couldn't it? Someone should probably make sure the concert didn't violate an Starfleet conduct codes...shouldn't they?

"So, would I know any of these musicians?" he asked, extending an olive branch.

"Why don't you let me introduce you," she laughed, reaching for his elbow to lead him through the door.

"Just so we are clear…you're not going to have the volume up too loud, are you?"

She grinned and commanded the door to open. Inside, Riker's eyes had to adjust to the low lights before he could make out what he was seeing. The room she had created was small. Not at all what he had been expecting.

The party had got on with itself, but at a level far more acceptable to the officer. He was taken back by the number of faces he recognized. In the thirty-six hours she had been aboard, she had gathered a respectable coterie. Riker estimated about thirty lower deck crew members were bobbing up and down on the tiny dance floor, which, he noted, was wooden, and bouncing.

The music now, he unwillingly had to admit, was catchy, but the snatch of lyrics he could make out didn't impress him. The audience seemed to have picked them up quickly enough, but then there wasn't much for them to grasp.

"_Where's your head at, where's your head at,_" repeated the strangely rhythmic chant.

There was a little stage at the back of the room. What looked to be a limestone block wall was covered with black sheets. The offending speakers - taller than he was - were at the sides of the stage. The two men on stage were not quite hidden behind an antique computer and, Riker stared, an old record player? Or was it called a turntable. One of the men (he wore glasses) was dressed in a crisp old fashioned suit. The other had on a kind of shapeless short-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt was splashed with reds and yellows. It's wearer also had on a pair of glasses with darkened lenses. Sunglasses? Hundreds of posters lined the walls, including an inordinate number featuring penguins. There were even penguins (wearing blackened glasses) emblazoned on the speakers.

Lark directed a bemused Riker to a stand with several people at the back of the room. As she approached, someone turned around and said, "There you are. You're missing your own show, Lark dear."

It was the man from Caldos.

In the instant Riker realized it, the man spied him. A flicker of recognition and something else – annoyance? Surprise? - crossed his face. He recovered quickly, though, and Riker had to wonder if he had just imagined the look.

"Commander – welcome," he said, jovially enough. "I see she's roped you in too...be wary – she'll have you chained and enslaved before you know it – you'll be able to check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."

Lark groaned. "Lord, Sud...that was terrible. Nice try, but cheesy just the same."

Riker glanced at them both in mild confusion, unsure of the part he had just played in an obvious game between the two.

"Don't mind us," was all the Caldosan would say, laughing.

On the song's dying beats, Lark moved to and jumped easily onto the stage.

"Guys, Simon and Felix," she said with a flourish into a microphone with a cord. A cord! Riker found himself in a sea of claps and cheering. Lark hadn't finished. "Because I'm sure you all have shifts to get to in the morning, I thought a change of pace might be needed to help you get to sleep, so tonight we're going to finish off with a millennial special - a little tortured angst. It's my very great pleasure to introduce you to a singer who would need no introduction if this was a Lilith Fair festival…"

A woman stepped out of the crowd and stepped onto the stage. She and Lark exchanged a few inaudible words, before several more people appeared with instruments around her. It was a tight fit on the stage.

Riker leaned against the rickety wooden bench.

"Beer?" a grizzled man in period costume offered the first officer congenially.

"Thanks," Riker replied, taking the proffered glass bottle - a bottle with a tight metal cap, which didn't seem to want to unscrew. Surreptitiously he cast looks about the room, hoping someone would helpfully demonstrate the etiquette for opening and quaffing the drink. He was saved by Ensign Perim, who picked up a small hand tool on the table in front of her and appeared to jimmy the cap.

He willed himself to stop being so self-conscious. _Dammit_, he thought. If the ensigns had picked up the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of an old culture in such a short time, so could he.

He felt stupid, but reminded himself bottle openers were hardly de rigueur in the twenty-fourth century. He asked the Caldosan if he had one. Sudamen reached into his coat pocket, pulling from it a small oblong object - an old-fashioned pocket knife.

He handed it to Riker, saying casually, "That peculiar stop we took in the middle of nowhere today – was that anything we should be concerned about, commander?"

On stage, the musicians weren't rushing things. One guitarist was strumming a few chords and tuning strings individually until they were all just so. The singer was sound checking the mics, speaking into them one by one (she had an almost standard North American Terran accent) and periodically calling for more fold back.

As Sudamen looked ahead Riker tried to gauge whether there was any hidden meaning in the man's question.

"An unanticipated engineering problem was all," he replied. "Nothing that should worry you or any of your party."

"There's been no further development on the _Bounty_, then? I only ask," he added quickly when Riker glanced his way, "because we nearly took the _Bounty_. Our departure was unexpectedly delayed and we had to switch to the _Fleur-de-lys_. To think that something has happened to the _Bounty_, well, you can understand how ill I might be feeling..."

"I didn't know," Riker answered.

On stage, the singer stood calmly while behind her a man fiddled with a massive drum kit. When he was content with the set up, he had to squeeze against the wall to reach his seat. It was his crashing drum solo that kicked off the performance.

Riker was moderately impressed. There was more for him to admire in this woman's performance than the two men before. The music was more soothing and her voice could have cut crystal. Her band was obviously skilled. They handled their instruments with ease, making complex sounds appear effortless. Their voices set a harmony against which hers soared.

"Do you recognize her?" Lark had sidled up to the men, unnoticed.

Riker found it hard to peel his eyes away from the stage. "No. Should I?"

She shrugged. "I suppose every great artist deserves to be remembered. Then again, I don't know if there's anything meant to last forever. It makes me sad to think there's so much that's been lost, though."

"But, as much as things are lost, there's always something that eventually fills its space," Riker pointed out.

"Everything's relative, I guess; but is the replacement really of equivalent value to the thing it succeeds?"

"Surely, it must be equal...if people in a culture didn't find a concept worthy of its predecessor, why would they exchange a thing of value for something less."

She considered the response. "I accept all musical styles, say, will eventually evolve and that a generation will naturally choose the sounds it wishes to represent itself. So, yes, there is fair argument that a style which supersedes another by natural selection, can be considered its equal in value _by the people that chose it_. But is it all equivalent across a broad spectrum? Does one style's sum totals carry equal weight when compared to another's?"

Riker tried to think of a snappy answer, but failed.

"Don't let her draw you into this conversation, commander," Sudamen warned.

"Imagine musical styles were a thing you could wrap," Lark said, ignoring her companion. "Imagine all your friends bought you a different musical style for your birthday. You arrive at the party and there are all those different parcels laid out on a table in front of your birthday cake."

_I never had a birthday cake_, he thought. _Ever_.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Sudamen said to Riker, picking up his bottle. "If you don't mind, I think I'll just enjoy the concert from over there." The tall man pushed his way to a table closer to the stage.

Lark wasn't about to give up her birthday present analogy.

"Are you drawn to the biggest present? The one with the strangest shape? Or the most regular shape? The one with the nicest paper or the best presentation? Or, are all they all identical? Or all the same weight. The same shape – just your average plain package," Lark finished.

Riker rejected the wisecrack about packages that came to mind. Then again, didn't that joke have it's origins somewhere in the twentieth century? He didn't know the answer to that either.

"Is it really important to have an answer," he questioned neutrally. "Can't you just say music is what it is and get on with the job of whatever it is you do with music?"

She fixed him with a glare. "Most of the time that's exactly what I do," she said defensively. "But haven't you ever wondered what music from, for example, ancient Egypt sounded like. What melodies they had – whether an ancient Egyptian composed a song so beautiful that if it were discovered and played today it would be a new sound to you – a new sound that you liked and were thankful to have heard?"

"You've obviously thought about this at considerable length," Riker remarked drily.

"Impossibilities frustrate me a little," she admitted. She laughed. "Did that all sound way too silly? I try not to let my wilder speculations get in the way when I'm teaching. Sometimes, you just want to share an idea, though, no matter how ridiculous. Just to put the thought out there."

"So it's not just millennial music you like...you think there might be some ancient lullabies you could be just as passionate about? What about modern music?"

"At the risk of sounding dogmatic, most of what passes for popular today is shite."

Riker gave a low whistle. "Harsh. Hope you show more mercy when you grade your students."

She smiled.

"I can't put my finger on it, but none of it really engages me the same way millennial music does. It's weird, you know. We talk about millennial music, but the term is deceptive. In my field of study – I'm an anthropologist – I don't just look at what music was produced in the period. I study what music the millennials used to express their culture. Where they used that music. How they sourced it. Where it came from. It was the age of sampling – a kind of historical and cultural cannibalism. That's the biggest paradox I find in the period. Sure, it was also regarded as the age of waste and rampant consumerism – but the millennials get the blame for something they inherited, not a problem they solely created for themselves."

Riker found himself caught in her enthusiasm.

"Music in the twentieth century went through the most amazing flux and development. It was only inevitable that technology would eventually impact upon music the same way it did other facets of society. Those developments irrevocably changed the way societies functioned. Self-imposed limits and taboos inherent in a society couldn't develop as quickly – _as they were_ they were no longer relevant. For some time, world cultures operated blindly in a new kind of world where the old constraints no longer held them back. Everything was cast against the frame of a market economy. In later decades, an American president, Ronald Regan, made the first now infamous reference to people as consumers. The groundwork was laid. Consumers, good, bad, old, young knew what the agenda was. 'Growth' they cried. 'Without economic growth we will fail, we will die.' There was an impossible-to-believe-in-hindsight lack of disregard for one important factor."

"Earth's fixed resources," Riker supplied, familiar with the theory behind this territory.

"The universe has yet to throw up the magic bag of infinite supply. We remember that now. We factor that into how we operate life, just as any ancient culture did to ensure its self-perpetuation. But we've only achieved this by learning the hard way. The millennials deserve recognition for their own slow realization. They were born into a time when this knowledge had been lost because it no longer seemed pertinent. Sure, things got tough once they had stretched their resources to capacity and they were forced to deal with the problem head on. But, there were warning signs, and people did start reading them. There was a burgeoning sense of the limits they had to work within. The greater need to conserve and preserve, the weighing of cultural values verses straight capital gain. I have a student working on a thesis at the moment, examining links between the concept of recycling and a greater emphasis on sampling in millennial art forms."

"It was a time of gross waste but also a time of recycling, fossicking, reuse. As fast as they wasted, they created. As fast as they wasted creation, they created from waste. That's the paradox."

"I've never really thought about it in those terms before," Riker said, stuck on some of her unusual Caldosan terminology. Lark stopped to sip her drink.

"Music was made to fit into the economic framework, like everything else. It became just another commodity. All of a sudden there was more, and it was more readily available - but fortunately that didn't necessarily cheapen all of it. Okay, sure, these guys invented the concept of canned music – but the good stuff – it benefited from a lot of the developments that only came about with the canned stuff, because of the vast sums of money poured into it."

"Like anything, you have to accept the good with the bad," Riker said, understanding this idea.

"Exactly."

"So, why can't you feel this way about modern music?" Privately he wondered if she considered her prejudices in the same light as she saw others' dislike of the millennial period.

"The same way you can like one character in a story and dislike another. It's all about personality, Will. We have our ups and downs these days – the war has obviously spread a blackness across many people's hearts. But, in other ways – ours is the society that inherited humanity's ability to, in the end, get things right. We're too perfect to produce shattering, electrifying, tear-your-heart-out music."

Her gaze wandered to the musicians on stage. Riker got the impression for a second she was galaxies away; pensive – looking not at a holographic trick of subatomic particles but reaching back through time to see a long dead singer deliver a heart-stopping performance just one more time.

"And the society which we have decried as fatuous, self-absorbed and infantile - it produced some truly beautiful sounds. Music is a reflection of its culture. The emotion you find in twentieth century and millennial music is infinite, because they had it all, selfishness, selflessness, a world balanced by its good and its bad, every conceivable shade of gray, a desire to be saved, their own sense of impending doom..."

Riker considered her. "Yes," he said gravely, "but we have better speakers."

"This is true," she replied aiming for a straight face and failing miserably. Her laughter seemed slightly irreverent against the passionate singing of the woman on stage.

"_Sleep has left me alone/ to carry the weight of unraveling /where we went wrong." _Riker could identify with the lyrics. They jolted him as he remembered he had been on his way to talk to_ her_ before he had become distracted. But lack of sleep hadn't been his problem; he had been warding sleep off.

"_How stupid could I be/ a simpleton could see/ that you're no good for me/ but you're the only one I see…everything changes…"_

That was wrong, he thought. The song had it all wrong. She wasn't wrong for him. They were exactly right for each other..._everything changes_.

And, just like that, his stomach lurched. A stitch-like pain was tearing the muscles in his abdomen. He was up and desperately hurrying for the exit before Lark had time to ask him if he was okay. She followed him, calling in concern.

"Lark, I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me," he said over his shoulder.

Outside in the corridor he doubled over against the wall. His hands pushed into the sides of his head as he sank. Panic gripped him.

Gritting his teeth and pushing through the pain he tapped his comm badge.

"Counselor Troi?"

The comm was silent.

"Riker to Troi. Deanna?"

Frantically, he went through his options.

-oOo-

_Where's your head at?_ Basement Jaxx /watch?vQrWPeaw8uU8  
_Stupid_, Sarah McLachlan /watch?vQrWPeaw8uU8


	5. Shadowboxer

Chapter 4:

**Shadowboxer**

Counselor Deanna Troi didn't usually have mornings waking up to wonder where in hell she was. Blinding headaches weren't a norm either - and yet here she was face down on something fuzzy, unwilling to open her eyes - certain her head had been the bottom rock in a landslide.

She made an effort to lift herself, getting no further than an inch from the ground. Exhausted, she collapsed onto the furry surface again. Her cheek landed on something cold and damp. And sticky.

_Ugh_, she groaned. Her fingers gingerly explored the floor by her mouth. Great, just great – her head hurt, she had no idea where she was or why, and she had dribbled on the upholstery.

_I wonder how often they vacuum clean the floor_, she thought distractedly. The effort was too much; she blacked out again, never hearing the dull echo of running steps. She didn't reply to the distraught voice calling her name. In the blackness, she was allowed one thought – _he's here - _and it gave her all the comfort she needed.

-oOo-

Hands were touching her, on her neck or her wrist - she was too woozy to know the difference. She was being cradled, she felt arms gently pull her up. Hair was brushed out of her face and a muffled voice was apparently engaged in a strange one-way conversation.

Struggling to move, she tugged on fabric attached to her rescuer. "Will?" she whispered.

"Help's on its way, Deanna. Don't move unless you have to." The request was reasonable, but did he have to be so rude about it, she wondered. As though somehow this whole situation was _her_ fault. Besides, what was _he_ doing, moving her?

"Will," she tried again. She would ask her question – she was sure there was something important she had to say. "Will, how does the ship stay so clean?" _Gods, where did that come from?_ That wasn't what she had wanted to say. Was it? A soft shh and a tightened grip was all she got.

She fought and mastered an extreme urge to sneeze. The tickling in her nostrils disappeared, replaced by jaggers of pain ripping her stomach. It couldn't be helped; she gagged, unable to retain dinner. Riker swore quietly. Tears were squeezed out of her eyes, as the pain in her stomach competed for top spot with the agony of her throbbing head. She couldn't work out what Riker used to wipe her mouth; it had the soft silkiness of her new dressing gown.

Purged, she lay in his arms ironically wondering why things couldn't be like this between them more often - until a distant noise indicated the arrival of medical assistance (an anti-grav cart from the sound of it). It wasn't exactly manhandling, but her knight-in-shining-armor seemed awfully keen to let go of her before anyone else got too close to see the cozy couple.

New _concerned_ hands took over, carefully lifting her onto the cart. She hadn't realized how cold she was until a thermal blanket was tucked around her. It reminded her of bed and sleep and really, really good dreams. Was that it? Was that what she had needed to tell him? Something about dreams?

"Hey. You're not thinking about nodding off are you?" The rude voice was back. He was personally affronted. The idea of her sleeping completely offended him. That was certainly bizarre. What did it all mean?

The strain to remember triggered another wave of cramps. She give a shallow gasp, readying herself for the inevitable. One of the nice, _concerned_ peoples helped her upright and rubbed her back as she heaved.

As she snuggled back under the blanket, Riker's hand lightly shook her shoulder.

"No you don't," he said. "Not if you have a concussion. You're going to ride this one out, counselor, if I have to prop your eyelids open with toothpicks."

"The commander's right, counselor," the helpful one said. "You need to stay awake, at least until you've been checked out by the doctor."

"Traitor," Troi rasped.

"She's delirious, sir."

"She's not delirious. She's just feeling sorry for herself."

It was a silly front. Troi knew Riker's stern tone and manner masked worry. And, he knew she knew. Her stubbornness in willfully misreading his demeanor was just as stupid...and rather petulant. So there they were, both knowing something to be true and both idiotically avoiding it. Like children.

_All must be right with the world_, she thought, almost snorting. _Here we are, back on the familiar battlefield. _Only, the childishness had been a recent development.

"Try opening your eyes, Deanna."

"Do I have to," she muttered.

"I can make it an order if you want."

The sharp light was piercing and she grimaced. Riker placed his hand above her head, shading her from the overhead lights.

"Thanks," she murmured. She could make him out now. He had his serious face on. The same face he had been wearing for weeks.

"You could tell me why you've been such a grouch this week," she said, hoping to make him smile. "That might keep me awake – you know, laughing at the pathetic excuses you come up with." Her face blanched in misery as her body told her she had exerted herself beyond her means.

"In case you haven't noticed, _counselor_," she never liked it when he stressed her title, as though she was about to get a telling off from an irritated father. Lord knew, she already had one dictatorial parent. "You're the one headed toward a biobed in sickbay because of a vicious head wound that can not be explained by any normal course of events. That officially makes you the patient. And, that means for the time being you answer either my questions or any questions put to you by your doctor. Do I make myself clear?"

"I have a head wound?" she asked. Hands swooped on her, firmly pinning her arms to her sides when she would have reached up to feel her skull.

"It's well you should ask who gets cleaning detail in the morning. He or she will have a sizable quantity of your precious blood to clear up from the carpet that corridor."

"There was blood?" she said faintly. "I thought I'd just dribbled."

She never got the chance to hear his response. The doors to sickbay slid open and the medical attendants bustled her in, where an anxious Beverly Crusher was waiting.

The doctor fussed over her for some time while Riker hovered in the background. By the time Beverly had run her diagnostic equipment over Troi and was satisfied with her ministrations, the party of Riker had swelled to include the captain and the ship's new security officer, Lieutenant Christine Vale.

Vale had obviously been reporting to the captain and first officer. Still on her stomach on the bed, Troi wasn't privy to their conversation. The doctor was healing to the wound on her head.

"Not as bad as it looks," she said, when Troi asked for a description. "I'm pretty sure the hair will grow back over the bald patch..."

Troi craned her neck to give the doctor her best baleful look.

"...I'll give you something for the nausea and the headache, but you'll need to rest this one out," Crusher went on, smiling sweetly. "Whoever hit you did a good job of it – I'd say he used his fist, but he must have had gloves on; the tricorder didn't pick up an foreign DNA."

"I'm not sure I remember anything," Troi stated when the doctor finally gave the others permission to approach and question her. The sickening cramps had gone away, and although she was lightheaded, she was able to sit up without the feeling her head was going to spin away.

"There must be something you can tell us," Riker said. "You didn't get that bump running backward at warp speed into a bulkhead. Do you have any inkling as to why you were on that floor at that time of night."

"Maybe I was looking for someone," she mused aloud. She bit back the temptation to suggest she might have had a midnight assignation with another crew member...or one of the guests recently come aboard.

"Since we can not establish a cause or motive for this attack, counselor, I've arranged for a security detail to accompany you to your quarters,"the captain said. "There is no need to worry. The lieutenant has security combing the ship for any signs of trouble."

He might had been talking to an empty room. Troi had stilled, apparently unaware of Picard, her eyes starry. "He was brimming with joy," she said abstractly.

"Deanna?" Riker leaned forward, as though afraid he'd miss what she said. Picard and Vale too drew to attention.

"There was no malice in his actions. Absolutely no malice, it was just a moment of pure luck. An almost unbelievable stroke of fortune. He was happy. Then he hit me."

"Did you see him?" Vale asked.

"No. I didn't even hear him. I _sensed_ him just before he hit me. He was..." she paused, searching for the right word. "absorbed – thinking intently. It's like he turned a corner, saw me, had the opportunity to hit me and it made him very, very happy. There was no sense of satisfaction that might come from the thrill of the hunt – he didn't even know me."

"He gets his kicks out of cold coxing random people in the small hours of night?" Riker asked flippantly.

"No, he didn't kick me, he definitely hit me," Troi said.

"You're certain he didn't know you. Nor you him?" Vale wasn't here to banter. All of them, with the exception of the security officer, who looked totally professional, had clearly been roused from or preparing for sleep. But Vale was on alert. It comforted Troi to know this woman took her job seriously.

Troi shook her head. "He was a stranger to me."

"Would you recognize him if you sensed him again?" Riker asked.

Troi gave her beloved a withering look. "Of course, but a line up won't be necessary." The three stared at her.

"He's dead."

She looked at them all. They continued to stare back.

"That's what I was trying to remember."

She sensed Will's frustration but refused to feel guilty. Her memory was not in its usual peak condition. They would have to be patient and wait for the sensations to come back to her piecemeal. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, hoping the mediative pose would hasten the retrieval process.

"He hit me." She started with what she knew was true. "As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I knew he was in pain. All over. He was burning. I don't know how. He can't have been very far from me. I couldn't help him. He was confused and dying. I could feel it."

Beside her Riker shuddered. He would know what that admission had cost her to say. Humans were funny sometimes, she thought. Their ability to empathize seemed so much more of a talent to her than her own natural ability. Her sense of other people came as easily as opening her eyes to see. But humans had to rely on their experiences and ability to imagine their responses in a situation to achieve empathy. Some of them were very good at it. The support they offered her, without knowing it, helped balance the remembered pain of suffering and death.

With a new lead to go on, Vale conferred quickly with Picard, and wished Troi well, before hurrying out of the room. She would be going back to the scene of the attack. Troi wished she were going with the new officer. Now that she remembered what had happened, she was eager to get to the bottom of the mystery – but the stress of the evening had caught up with her and she couldn't stifle a large yawn, which reminded everyone of the late hour.

"Beverly has okayed you returning to your room," Riker said, helping Troi up. "You're allowed to rest in your own bed, but only if someone's there to keep an eye on you. Guess that's me."

"Surely that's not necessar-," she began.

"Doctor's orders."

"That's settled then," Picard said. "Commander, counselor, you are both relieved of your bridge duties tomorrow. Counselor, I expect you to adhere to the doctor's orders until such time as she deems you suitable to return to duty." He turned to Riker. "I expect you to get a decent sleep once Deanna has rested, Number One."

The first officer stiffened almost imperceptibly. Troi didn't miss it.

He was terrified, literally terrified of the thought of sleep, she realized, with a sinking feeling that the source of this problem was not going to be easily dealt to.

She waited to broach the topic with him until they reached her cabin. The security detail Vale had tailing them prohibited her from bringing it up as soon as they left sickbay. But, Will was ready for her. Allowing her no time to question him, he hurried her to change (blood had stained her nightwear and dressing gown) and had turned down the sheets by the time she had exited the bathroom.

"No more talking, Deanna," he said when she opened her mouth. "Beverly wants you to lie still and rest. I'll be here to monitor you through the night."

Her selfish body told her not to argue, and the bed (which he had had to straighten suggesting she had already tried sleep earlier in the evening) looked appealing. He would brook no argument, but she refused to go under without one warning shot.

"You and I are going to have serious talk in the morning, commander."

"We should know more about what's going on by the time you wake up," he countered, refusing to give her any sign he knew she was talking specifically about him.

-oOo-

Riker had plenty to think about when he left Troi and dropped onto a couch in her sitting room. The sleep he had been chasing away all evening had given up. Now, his brain was racing; he relived that moment back in the hall where he had found her, bloodied and unmoving.

On the holodeck he had asked the computer to locate her, but before it had time to answer he had been on his feet and running in her direction. The pain had been hers, he was sure, so he pushed through it, despite how cripplingly it affected him. He was not sure how long it had taken to reach her. Not long, but time enough for her attacker to meet his demise, in whatever way that had been achieved. He felt certain the man had been dead before he arrived. Troi wouldn't have let a dying man go without some effort to help him.

He had hurtled down the corridor, regardless to how he might look to anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. Lieutenant Chafin managed to jump out of his way, but only just.

Then he had seen her.

She had been a tiny black and white heap... but the red seeping down the back of her white silk dressing gown was visible even from that distance. He sprinted, tapping his comm as his legs ate up the gap between them.

It wasn't a new thing for Beverly Crusher. She'd been dealing with Riker and Troi for years. She'd probably lost track of the times one or the other would interrupt her sleep with a desperate plea for medical attention. She asked him to describe what he saw.

He had knelt beside Troi, holding back his shock at the sight of the gash on her head and the blood-matted hair which did little to stem the seepage.

He called to her, but got no response. Quickly he had searched for her hand. Her pulse was thready. He couldn't help himself. Basic first aid be damned. He wanted her to feel secure – to know – on whatever level she was, that help was on its way. He gently lifted her into his lap.

"Will," she had said faintly.

He told her to be quiet and rest. That she had spoken was the first good sign, but he wasn't able to put aside his concern immediately. The wound on her head was no accident and the danger that an attacker might be holed up waiting for another chance to finish the job had him on alert. The sooner Vale got here, the better.

The security officer turned up just as Troi was being placed onto the cart.

Riker had explained what he found, which wasn't much, he realized.

"A shipwide search has already begun," the woman assured him.

It could be anyone, Riker wanted to point out. Until they spoke to Troi, they would have to rely on instinct and suspicion to proceed.

"Have the computer access washroom and cabin logs as well as the floor log. I doubt Troi's attacker came off without so much as a bruise. If he bloodied himself he'll need to wash his hands to avoid detection." He needed to do something. The medical assistants finished stabilizing Troi.

"Contact me, as soon as you have something," he had said curtly to Vale as he stalked after the cart.

Now, for the second time today, he was waiting for the security officer to contact him. His mind sorted the puzzle pieces, but no matter how many angles he examined, too many pieces of the puzzle were missing to form a clear notion.

He considered motivations for the attack. The man may not have known Troi personally, but the opportunity to strike her had been too good to waste. Had the man intended to permanently remove her from the picture? Was she about to stumble unwittingly over a scene she couldn't be allowed to remember or talk about? Or was the attack simply to distract security from something else? Neither of those ideas seemed likely, if, as Troi had intimated, there was no degree of premeditation about the attack. If she had been specifically targeted, then why?

_Because of what she was. _Someone on board had something they wanted to hide, which Troi potentially could have exposed. A secret worth injuring or, possibly, killing for. It was the only reasonable explanation his brain could turn up and accept.

"Vale to Commander Riker."

"Have you got him?" He wasn't in any mood to waste time on banalities.

"A body has been found jammed into a narrow Jefferies tube ten meters from where the counselor lay. It will be extracted as soon as a scene analysis is completed."

"How long will that take?"

"Lieutenant Korran must examine of the far end of the tube before the body is removed. She has entered the access system and is there now. She expects to be finished soon."

"Any indication who it is?"

"Human...beyond that, the manner the body has been impacted into the tube makes identification impossible to determine at this point. Cause of death is also as yet unknown, commander, although it maybe safe to presume he had help getting himself into this position," Vale added, preempting his next question.

Meaning in every likelihood a murderer was on the loose on the _Enterprise_.

_Great. Just fucking great._

"Enact level four security responses for a 1H situation, proceed as you were with the investigation and keep me updated." Riker didn't doubt the new officer would work exhaustively to cover all possibilities in the search. She wouldn't have gotten the post if she wasn't the right person for the job.

The code for an unknown and dangerous intruder was seldom needed on a starship. Floor logs, security data, advanced forensic technology should ensure any murderer didn't stay conceal for long. But Riker felt oddly ambiguous toward the killer – he'd undoubtedly rid the ship of someone who posed a threat to Deanna – he couldn't be all bad then, could he?

Mind you, the body had been jammed – impacted – into the tube. Vale's dispassionate choice of language evoked in the first officer a peculiar sense of pity for the dead man. Ignominy in death – crammed unceremoniously into a tube and left to die.

He tried to imagine the thoughts that might assault a dying man stuffed headfirst into a confined space. Troi said he had been happy, perhaps deliriously so. Between then and Troi's later awareness of his pain, something had gone horribly wrong for him. Did despair overtake him as swiftly as joy had?

Troi had lived through the man's death. She had given them as much as they needed to know about the experience. He wondered what she had left out. It can't have been pleasant.

He had wanted to put his arms around her. He had seen death, smelled it, heard the pain that could sometimes accompany it, even thought he was about to have a more intimate knowledge of it a few times, but to share someone else's feelings as they were dying – he would pass on that experience. If thoughts of his own unique bond surfaced in his mind, he quickly tamped them.

The stress of the day finally had him cornered and a desperate need to shut out the waking world took precedence. Dragging himself off the couch, he went to the door leading to Troi's bed. The low rhythmic sound of her breathing reassured him she really was okay. He made it to the chair beside her bed, but once his head slumped onto the thick, comfy armrest he knew the battle was lost. The computer would tell him if anything was wrong, was his last leaden thought.

-oOo-

He woke to an almost novel sensation. Seconds passed before he realized what it was.

"You look better," a voice called from the doorway.

Riker looked up at Troi. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?"

She was already dressed in her uniform. Riker couldn't remember the doctor clearing her for duty. He suddenly scrambled out of the chair.

"Shit. How long have I been out?"

She hastened to calm him. "Will, relax. You've probably had about ten hours of uninterrupted, decent sleep -despite the absolute lack of comfort." She grinned. "Maybe we should make you sleep in a chair more often."

"I told Vale to update me when she found out who that man was." The slip in professionalism made him want to kick himself.

"And I told Vale, when she tried to get your attention this morning, you could wait to hear it." She moved into the room, confronting him. "Don't you dare try to deny you needed that sleep."

"Okay, Deanna. I have had a few sleepless nights - I was probably just stressed by the requests. I feel fine, really."

All his resolve to confess about the dreams vanished. Standing here, looking her in the eyes, he couldn't bring himself to start the conversation. There had been nothing unsettling in his dreams last night – in fact, if he had dreamed, he had no memory of it now. Maybe it _had_ been the added stress of dealing with the crew's displeasure.

"So, did Beverly say you could resume work?" He asked deflecting the conservation back on her.

"A meeting's being held to discuss what happened last night," she said haughtily. "I'm not missing it."

"Did I get an invite to the party?" he asked.

"Now that you're awake, I suppose it would be pointless to try and keep you from it."

"Do I have time to get changed?"

"And time left over for a wash," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Have a shower, Will. I'll arrange you a fresh uniform. And Will?"

He was already on his way to her bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder.

"I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

-oOo-

/watch?voVpHFLF2gNY


	6. Bring it

Chapter 5:

**(Bring it)**

"Festa Sem - attaché to the Volln'm ambassador."

_Enterprise_ security chief Christine Vale called up the murdered man's face on screen. It was a generic sort of shot, lifted from his diplomatic identification chip. Sem hadn't smiled when the image was taken. His hair, an unremarkable sandy blond was neither long nor short, and nothing in particular about his features stood out. He had been tall and bulky, and - presumably - strong, but seeing the picture didn't change anything for Troi. The picture barely meant anything – the sensation of the man's agony and confusion as he died had been imprinted much more powerfully on her mind.

"He came aboard at Starbase 313. His was the first group to embark; seventeen passengers in total, from the _Fleur-de-lys_." Christine Vale turned to Riker, who had arrived at the meeting invigorated after his long sleep and shower.

The_ Enterprise's_ senior staff had gathered in the conference room. The counselor had been greeted with concern by her male colleagues. Chief engineer lieutenant commander Geordi La Forge has risen; Data had asked her how she was. The doctor, however, had raised an eyebrow, when Troi glanced at her. The counsellor's gaze flicked away quickly.

"I remember him," Riker said, studying the picture carefully. "Quiet. Unassuming. He was traveling alone – said the ambassador had gone on ahead of him."

"However, Owat Djon - the Volln'm ambassador - claims it is impossible that this man was Festa Sem," Vale said. She nodded to Data.

"The ambassador says a Festa Sem was part of his diplomatic core – until his death six months ago. Mr Festa, who lived to an advanced age of 107, died of untreated liver disease on Volln'm," Data said.

"Then who is this man? And how did he get on my ship?" Picard asked.

"The identification chip he carried is Sem's, although the descriptive details have been altered. The ambassador admitted Sem's office was the scene of an unexplained break shortly after his death, but the room appeared to be untouched and the open door which prompted their initial suspicions was recorded as a system malfunction. He thinks the chip could have been taken at this time."

"Standards sound a bit lax on Volln'm, don't they?" Riker deadpanned.

Picard turned to Doctor Crusher. "Can we know if the man found in the shaft was from Volln'm?" he asked.

"He's human," Crusher replied. "Volln'm was settled by Terrans late in the twenty-first century. It was one of the first planets to undergo Terra forming. It maintains close ties with Earth, and has a virtually homogeneous genetic make up, making it difficult to determine if he was from Volln'm, from Earth or from any of the other planets in the system with a shared earth heritage. We can put his age between 45 and 53 and about the only thing he shared in common with the real Festa Sem was damage to his liver...the kind of damage caused by habitual longterm consumption of alcohol. However, the damage to the imposter Sem's liver wouldn't have been enough to kill him."

"Have we had anymore luck establishing what did kill him?" Who he was was not as important to Riker as how he died.

Crusher smiled at the first officer. "You're going to like this one," she said. "Venom," she pronounced, once she had everyone's attention.

"What...like from a snake bite?"

"Exactly like a snake bite – the inland taipan or fierce snake, as it is also known, to be precise, which in itself is unusual, since the Terran inland taipan is commonly thought to be extinct."

"Doctor, should we be warning crew members to be on the lookout for a marauding serpent?" Vale appeared serious.

The doctor smiled again. "Let me put you ophidiophobs out of your misery. Mr Sem, or whoever he was, was killed by a lethal dose of artificially concentrated reptilian venom. While the venom had been treated to quadruple its natural potency, the initial base was still the real deal, not a synthetic. However, the method of delivery was artificial. It wasn't directly injected into his tissue. It was sealed in a soluble pouch which was planted subcutaneously under his left arm. The venom was probably harvested from a snake weeks ago, in case you were wondering."

Picard looked relieved. "It would have been impossible to smuggle a live snake on board."

"You can't fool the computer," Crusher said dryly in agreement.

"How long did it take the pouch to dissolve?" Riker queried.

"Well, the type of pouch in Mr Sem should have, in the normal course of events, dissolved after about fifty hours. However, I found more than mere traces of the synthetic pouch remains still in his bloodstream, which means it may not have even been dissolved enough to release the poison."

"If it hadn't dissolved fully, how was venom released - why did he die when he did?" La Forge asked.

"If the pouch had been subject to an abrupt movement it could have ruptured prematurely," the doctor answered.

"An abrupt movement such as striking something with considerable force?" Vale asked.

"That would do it."

Troi twisted in her chair next to Riker. "He thought he was so lucky," she said to him quietly.

"So the pouch could have been inserted before he beamed onto the _Enterprise, _but not much sooner," Picard said thoughtfully to the room. "Have the passengers he came aboard with been questioned?"

"None of the guests have been officially informed of his death, however several of the group have been casually questioned...Sem appeared to have kept to himself. He joined the _Fleur-de-lys_ at the last minute – he said he was held up from traveling with his delegation by a family affair. No one claims to have known him or even talked to him for any length of time. His credentials were authorized, so his story was accepted."

"So, who stuffed him in the hole?" Riker asked bluntly. "And why? How likely is it that a decomposing corpse would remain undetected for long on a starship?"

"Not long enough for the ship to reach a destination where the murderer can disembark and slip away into the crowd," La Forge said adamantly.

"We can not rule out the possibility he climbed into the shaft himself," Data said. "The counselor's blood was detected at the scene, as were bloody hand prints belonging to the dead man. Detailed forensic scene analysis has yet to turn up evidence of a third person -unless the counselor is able to confirm the presence of a third person."

Troi had been quiet during the discussion, listening carefully to the others, but she answered Data readily. "I sensed only this Sem. There's no one on board at the moment," she paused, with a sidewards glance at the doctor, "who I shouldn't have been able to sense, - but I can't categorically say a third or even a fourth person wasn't involved. I have no way of knowing how long I was unconscious."

"Besides," Riker said, giving Troi a pecular look – he hadn't missed her slight hesitation. "Didn't you say he was wedged tightly into the space, Christine, as though he had been jammed in? Seems unlikely he got himself into that position without a helping hand."

Vale nodded. "Those were my thoughts, as well, sir."

"That may be so, commander, but I can not accept the possibility a third person was involved until conclusive evidence corroborates that theory," Data said.

Picard nodded as the android spoke. "Considering the method of death, it is rather strange that somebody could have been there to tidy up the job. The delivery of venom was rather imprecise, in fact. Did the killer implant the poison sac and then follow his victim patiently for two days, to make sure he could be there to clean up the mess at the end?"

He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "Beyond speculation, people, we need a plan. Factor in the loss of the _Bounty_, as well as the unusual space debris Mr Data collected yesterday and we are going to be busy on a number of fronts. Mr Sem is our top priority for the moment, but that could easily change. A thorough job now could avoid hassles in the future."

The drama of the previous evening had usurped attention from the other matters. A few faces around the table shifted guiltily - Picard's comment about the missing transporter ship and Data's strange find the previous day (news of which had been received with some incredulity) reminded the crew their quiet, peaceful...cushy mission to Ark11 was rapidly turning out to be one of the more interesting voyages they had had for a while.

Data made a small 'ahem' sound. "On the topic of the debris, Captain, my examination of the data collected by the sensors shows it was radiating almost spherically from central point. The explosion which tore apart the structure was in all likelihood an internal one."

"Caused by?"

Data had perfected an apologetic face. "Unfortunately, there is not enough data available to determine that. However, it makes it less likely that the object's destruction was the result of being attacked."

"Perhaps something the ship was carrying exploded accidentally," La Forge mused. "Do we know what was being transported on the _Bounty_?"

"Her registered owner is still being contacted," Picard answered. "I'm expecting the information within the day."

La Forge's face lit up. "Say, do we know how old the _Bounty_ is? It's rare but some old transporters still in commission used to have tritium rigged auto-destruct mechanisms – the tritium reaction could be more accurately controlled than other options at the time, making it the ideal element for the initial self-destruct functions of early spacecraft."

Data shook his head. "I'm sorry, commander. The _Bounty_ was commissioned twenty-nine years ago, well beyond the age when tritium was a regular component on starships."

The information about the _Bounty_ was useful, but moved them no closer to solving the more pressing issue of what to do about the morgue's newly acquired dead body. Picard marshaled his troops and set about organizing practical measures for dealing with the problem.

"Mr Vale, I expect you are still continuing with the physical investigation. Get your team to work with Mr Data gathering and analyzing the forensic evidence. Number One, perhaps you could see to Mr Sem's personal belongings. See what you can find there and contact the _Fleur-de-lys's_ captain for as much information as you can get from her."

"I have requested a manifest from Captain Kogaru," Data said, helpfully.

"That will be useful." Picard looked pleased.

"Has the Volln'm ambassador had a visual of this man masquerading as Sem?" Riker's question met with a negative response. "I'll see if anyone in his party _does_ recognize him."

"I'll have my medical staff research the venom," Crusher said. "It may turn out to be one of the more fruitful avenues to explore. If there _are_ any Inland Taipan snakes still alive, they may not be too hard to trace."

"Good thinking," Picard agreed. "Counselor, your insights will be invaluable with passenger interviews. As soon as you're cleared by the doctor I'd like you to join Vale's team."

A faint hiss escaped Troi as she exhaled, but she gave nothing more than a quick affirmative nod to the captain.

"Captain, what do you want us to tell the other passengers? We can't exactly conduct an investigation in secret. People are going to start asking questions," Vale asked with concern.

"We will be open about this. We may have a killer on board - we can't afford subtlety in the investigation. We also can't afford any suggestion that man's death was covered up. Let it be known that his death has been put down to a lethal dose of a toxic substance, very probably ingested before he joined the _Enterprise_ – but make no mention of the poison's delivery or the nature of the toxin," Picard finished.

"Just to conclude, then," Riker said sardonically. "There may or may not be a murderer on the lose. We have no idea who our dead man is, where he's from, what he was doing, who killed him or how he got stuck in an access tube on our ship. Have I left anything out?"

"Why he was killed?" La Forge suggested.

"Why snake venom?" Crusher added.

Troi coughed politely. "Or why he hit me?"

Riker turned to her, talking in her porcelain expression. It was harder for him to read her today. She had been arch and almost playful that morning, but her energy seemed to have flagged the longer they talked. He knew she wouldn't want any attention drawn to her state. He turned away quickly.

"Clearly our guest had something to hide. Whatever he was concealing, he obviously thought it worth the risk of attacking a senior Starfleet personnel member."

"What could have been that important?" Vale asked curiously.

The faces around the table were thoughtful. Picard let out a soft 'hmm'. Riker had his chin in his hand; Troi stared at her hands in her lap. The discovery of the body had somewhat superseded her own role in the events of the night before, for which she was thankful. As much as she had gone over what happened there were holes in her memory that she struggled to fill. What was she doing on deck eleven? She'd obviously already gone to bed for the evening. What made her get up and go to that floor? The floor was mainly taken up with offices, conference rooms and auditoriums.

She had been careful to maintain a calm face during the meeting, but internally she was seething with frustration, and not just because of the lost memories. Crusher had been looking at her intently, so she knew this was one thing she couldn't keep secret. Not that she was going to let it stay secret. Until she had discussed it with the doctor, though, she would stay quiet.

The meeting closed. If the senior staff were daunted by the number of unanswered questions they were dealing with, no one let on. Instead, they finalized their individual responsibilities, and prepared to get on with the job.

"A word, Deanna." Crusher caught up with the counselor as she exited behind the others. The two women left the room with heads close together, quietly discussing something.

The captain and his first officer were the last to their feet.

"Didn't I tell you this mission was going to improve?" Picard said to Riker as they stepped toward the door.

Riker refrained from showing bleak amusement. However well Troi was now, he couldn't take an attack on a friend so cavalierly. But he knew what the captain meant.

"How's the lecture going?" he inquired politely.

Picard's shoulders drooped. "Dreadfully. Between outlawed antique weaponry, snakebite victims and mysterious attacks on my staff, I've barely had time to get into the hows and whys of identifying prehistoric Metexilan arrowheads...and all this in the middle of space...unbelievable - to think, they wanted me to take a desk job," he scoffed.

-oOo-

The dead man traveled light.

It hadn't taken Riker long to go through his possessions. Sem had stored a single bag neatly at the bottom of a cupboard. He'd removed several spare changes of clothes and undergarments and put them, folded, on shelves above the bag. The bed had been made – Riker was faintly amused to find nightwear tidily tucked under a pillow. A brush, razor and toothbrush were set up precisely on a vanity in the bathroom. The only thing slightly out-of-kilter was a half-used bottle of some sort of hygiene spray. The cap sat on the bench next to the bottle. Riker pulled a face when he checked the label of the Shinox 'body odor neutralizing adhesive gas'. His tricorder told him the smelly stuff was a Volln'm product.

Nothing the dead man owned said much about him, although his apparent need for neatness made Riker think the man must have been somewhat fastidious in character.

Riker went back to the cupboard to take another look at the clothes.

Plain gray pants and tunics - they didn't seem out-of-character for someone masquerading as a diplomat's assistant.

It didn't make sense to Riker. Sem had been hiding something – there was no other reason for him to attack Deanna. But whatever it was, it wasn't in his room. The man had hardly been on the ship and he hadn't come aboard with anything else. His transferral to the Enterprise had been incidental. Until they knew about what he was doing on the other ship, they would simply be clutching at straws.

Riker picked up a pair of trousers again, shaking them out in frustration. Their construction and design were fairly standard – not really Riker's preference in fashion, but serviceable, none-the-less. There was evidence of a small tear and reparation along the inner waist hem. He assumed the garment chip had been removed, and confirmed it when he ran a tricorder over the patch. If the chip had been there, the tricorder would have beeped and given Riker a reading on where the garment originated, instructions on caring for it and what it was made of.

Actually, the tricorder could do the last two things without the chip. But it couldn't tell him where the pants were made.

He was about to toss them on the floor when his eyes fell on almost invisible seams on one side – a cunningly constructed pocket.

The first pair didn't yield anything, neither did the second pair, but in the third pair his luck turned.

His fingers clasped something tiny and he drew it out carefully.

When he had it safely in the palm of his hand, his curiosity rapidly dissolved into disgust. He mastered his desire to drop the object. Instead, he tapped his comm unit.

"Yes, commander," responded the doctor after he had paged her.

"Beverly, did Sem have any piercings?"

"He had an earing in his right ear lobe."

"Anything else?" Riker asked, waiting patiently as the doctor consulted her notes.

"Actually, yes. In the center of his tongue, of all places – no ornament, just a hole."

Riker stared distastefully at the tiny object in his hand. "Do you have any idea what he would have put through his tongue?"

"It depends. There are any number of ornamental tongue piece styles." The doctor was silent for a second, but continued before he could reply. "Come on, Will – what have you got there. Spit it out," she teased.

"I can assure you, whatever I have, it's not in my mouth...it looks like a small barbell."

Crusher's laughter crackled through the unit.

"Does this tell us anymore about Sem?" Riker asked. "Maybe where he's from?"

"It could do," was all the doctor would say.

-oOo-

Troi was looking forward to a drink in Ten-forward. Beverly had declared her fit for duty yesterday immediately after the senior staff meeting - despite the impairment she was still suffering after the attack.

"You're, um, not going to go all defensively aggressive on us again, are you," the doctor had said quietly dropping the bombshell as they made their way to the turbolift after the meeting.

Troi had rewarded her with a pained smile. "This time I'm just going to grin and bare it. It'll be an opportunity to practice some of my under-developed human traits...I am impressed you could tell, however."

"I was waiting for you to tell me." It felt like one of those occasions when the doctor might be a smidgen irritated. Troi willed herself to be calm. Unconsciously she closed her eyes and started a breathing exercise to regain control of herself.

"Honestly, Beverly, I just didn't notice last night." Beverly looked skeptical.

"No, really. It's not like last time. Last time I lost everything totally; gods it was awful," she said dredging up the painful memory.

"And this time?"

"Well, I don't think I noticed, because last night, I could still sense Will. I still can, in fact. I was probably too dazed to think about anyone else last night. It wasn't until this morning when I was waiting for Will to wake up that I thought about how 'quiet' it was. The last sense I remember was my attacker dying..."

The doctor hadn't lost her dubious face, but she decided to accept Troi's explanation.

"Pop back with me to sickbay and we'll do a couple of tests. Unless I find something untoward I don't see why I shouldn't recommend you get back to work, although the captain should know."

"I was going to tell him," Troi reassured her friend. "I wanted to have it checked out by you first – I mean, that I can still feel Will makes me confident this is only temporary. Who knows? Things could be back to normal in a couple of hours."

"I'm sure you're right, Deanna. The stress of sharing the man's death feelings and the concussion have most likely had an adverse temporary affect on your brain. Let me be the first to say how relieved I am with the way you are taking it."

Troi raised her hand to mock smack Crusher.

In the sickbay the doctor hadn't found anything in her scans to alarm her. She put Troi's diminished empathic ability down to the knock her head had received, and told Troi to check in with her at the end of the day to see if the condition had worn off.

Captain Picard had been informed that while the counselor was without one of her usual abilities, she was still capable of working (and was particularly keen to do something, considering her involvement in the activities of the previous night).

Like Crusher, Picard received with relief the news the counselor considered herself as well as to be expected and keen to get on with it.

"If you must know, it's a bit of dream-come-true," Troi informed her incredulous superior. "Ever since the last time it happened I've been nursing a little wounded pride and shame. The whole loss-of-sense thing got me thinking more about what it would be like to live like that permanently. At first the idea was totally inconceivable. You wouldn't want to lose you sight, would you? Then I started to develop a few theories on how you full humans do it."

"So, what did you come up with," Picard asked with interest.

"Well, this is just a theory – and a not unbiased one, at that." Troi smiled. "Humans, I think, have superior imaginations to Betazoids – I'd never admit that to my mother, mind you." She cast a quick look around, as if suddenly fearful, the Betazoid ambassador would magically beam in. "If that's true, I don't see why I can't try to have the best of both worlds. Maybe it's too late for me...I might be too set in my ways - too reliant on my sense – but at least I have the chance to get some real practice."

She had meant every word of it, but using cues which once she may have overlooked, she _got the feeling_, he wasn't entirely convinced.

Whatever his feelings, he had promised her his support one hundred percent and wished her well. The loss was inconvenient, considering the need the crew had at the moment to have a reliable assessment of their guests, but the condition was highly likely to correct itself in a day or two, and in the meantime, Troi could actually learn something useful about herself. It wasn't like anyone was getting off the ship anytime soon.

She had thrown herself into the investigation. News about the death had spread quickly, but Troi noted with relief, nobody, guests or crew, seemed particularly perturbed.

She had sat in on all of Vale's interviews, taking a mostly passive role. She was convinced none of the guest passengers had known the dead man. One by one Vale had called for the _Fleur-de-lys_ transfers and gone through the basics. Troi had studied all their faces carefully. She had watched their postures, their movements. It was like one of the poker games they liked to play. No one claimed to have met the man prior to joining the small transporter, no one knew what had supposedly kept him from traveling with the ambassador. He hadn't talked about any other kind of work he was involved in. No one could remember anything specific about him while they were on the Fleur-de-lys.

However, no one had seemed in the least bit concerned for the man, which Troi found odd. Surely, the stranger's plight should have touched off a moderate level of compassion. But being heartless wasn't necessarily a crime, and she had to remember that she was just going by what she instinctively thought people were feeling.

"Thank you, Dr Montgomery, that should be all. We'll contact you if we want to ask anything else," Vale said after an slight inclination from Troi.

The enthusiastic little man left the room with a bow and florid sweep of a hand.

Troi waited until the door was firmly shut. "Did anything about him strike you as odd?" she asked Vale.

Vale looked up in surprise. "I let him go...I thought you signaled me to let him go." Troi hurried to assure the Lieutenant.

"If he was lying he was very convincing...I just thought he was a little strange."

"He was odd," Vale said, "but I don't suppose that automatically makes him our prime suspect."

The security officer sighed. "So, really we're still nowhere. It's almost obscene that a man operating under an alias could get himself onto Starfleet's best known vessel with little comment from anyone and manage to get himself killed shortly after, again with no evidence of the event."

Troi could only agree with her. This was her first real opportunity to work with Vale. The woman had only recently transferred to the _Enterprise_, and while she had an easy manner and friendliness about her, Troi thought she detected an inner steeliness.

_What would it be like if I was in her position_, she wondered. Joining a new crew, slightly younger than the other officers she was dealing with, without the background to understand some of the nuanced conversations they had, the in-jokes. Add to that now this potentially embarrassing breach of the ship's security standards...Vale wasn't giving any sign the pressure was getting to her.

"The other passengers may have nothing to do with it, but we have to talk to them. If only to cross them off the list of suspects," Troi said, hoping to encourage Vale. "Anyway, is that all of them?" she asked.

"Not quite – we still have to talk to the woman commander Riker's interest in, and the large guy that heads the party she came with. They're seem inseparable." She gave Troi a second glance, not quite knowing what it was she had said to elicit the counselor's intense stare.

"The woman and the large guy, I meant," Vale said, wondering if she had said something wrong.

"So I presumed," Troi answered blandly. Then, "so who is this woman?"

"With the same party as Dr Montgomery – academics heading to one of the gala ceremonies. She's been quite a hit with the crew, actually," Vale went on oblivious to Troi's stillness. "Apparently she disabled the safety on a holosuite and proceeded to run a genuine millennial concert."

She laughed. "I heard Dr Crusher had to deal with several cases of tinnitus the following morning. She was not happy."

Beverly didn't mention it to _me_, Troi thought. "She organized a concert?" she asked.

"Yeah, one concert and she's got the lower decks eating out of her hands – La Forge told me she's been running workshops virtually all day."

"What kind of workshops?"

Vale shrugged. "Something to do with music. I saw commander Riker heading somewhere with his trombone."

Troi yawned, stretching. "So, is this woman going to grace us with her presence today?"

"I had them both paged ten minutes ago." As she spoke the doorbell chimed. The door opened when Vale barked a command.

The man entered first, casting a look about the room, which immediately set Troi on edge.

"Are we in the right place?" he asked. Behind him a short brunette came in, moving out from behind the man.

"Do you want to talk to us together? Or should I wait outside?" She was polite, matter-of-fact. Troi didn't pick up any sense of unease from the woman.

Troi took in her slim build and glossy hair, parted perfectly in the center of her head. Her attire screamed her interests – she was wearing pants made out of denim, a fabric popular in the twenty and twenty-first centuries. While the pants looked snug on her hips, the bottoms were full and fell to the floor. Bright pink toenails poked out beneath the hems; she had on a type of open-toed sandal or high heel, also pink. She wore a fitted black t-shirt (of old-fashioned manufacturing style). There was pink writing across her chest. Troi pondered what 'little baby nothing' meant.

"If you could just wait outside, Miss," Vale paused to check her padd, "Lark, we'll be with you soon."

Easily, the woman replied, "Sure, I'll wait outside but just call me Lark."

The exchange had given the man time to collect himself.

There was nothing historic about _his_ garb – just a plain old black knee length tunic and gray pants. The man, Sudamen, had trimmed his beard and mustache, but Troi felt an itching desire to neaten the black curls around his ears.

He answered their questions carefully, not rushing his responses. No, he and his team had not had much to do with the ambassador's attaché. He did not know if they had embarked first, or if the man had gotten on board first. They had run into him when they beamed over. He had not run into him other than on the tour and at Ten-forward. They had not chatted. He had never seen the man before - he stared sincerely at Troi as he said it - and wasn't it terrible, what had happened to him?

Her lack of empathic ability started to grate on Troi. Here was one case when she desperately wanted the reassurance of her ability to confirm the niggling feeling she had. With nothing stronger to go on, she let Vale end the interview.

In contrast, Lark was all openness. She answered candidly and simply. She gave the same answers as Sudamen, but Troi found herself believing the woman, whereas something about the man had not rung true.

"You're free to go," Vale said to her. "If you think of anything which could be useful, anything that you remember, don't hesitate to contact either myself or counselor Troi."

Vale and Troi swapped a look when the room was empty.

"I'm thinking the man's hiding something," Vale said in a tone of voice which implied she would defer to Troi if the other woman differed in opinion.

Troi nodded. "That was my impression, also. When he walked in he seemed especially nervous. It might be time to do some digging into his background."

Her working day had ended at that point, with no sign her sense was returning. Not eager to face more people in the ship's popular off-duty hang out, she had gone straight to her room to catch up on some of the sleep she had lost the previous night. No one had paid her a visit in the evening. Remembering the last time she lost of empathy she wasn't completely surprised. Her colleagues, she guessed, would be waiting to see how she was really coping.

She had woken alert and rested, but she knew immediately the part of her that was missing was still awol. It was an unsettling feeling, similar to vertigo, and one she was tiring of. If the concern – that dreadful thought she might never sense again – was bothering her, she was practiced enough in the art of self-deception not to acknowledge it. But after a further day of emptiness and regularly scheduled clinical duties she felt the need for a little syntheholic commiseration. Tonight she would deal with her friends face on. Besides, something was up with the crew – there was a definite lighting of the air. With her sense she would have felt it; drawn strength from it. If she wasn't able to benefit from that manner, at least being around happy people would be nice.

-oOo-

_/watch?vXV24FN4rDzE  
__Inland Taipan numbers remain, happily, healthy...at least for the time being._


	7. The Scientist

Chapter 7:

**The Scientist**

"It _is_ a tongue barb, then?" Riker stared at the small ornament in Data's hand. He had seen some fascinating cultural adornments over the years, but the concept of poking a hole into one's tongue still made the bile in his stomach rise. The practice had developed independently on a few Federation planets, including Earth, although it was rare there now.

"It is much more than that, commander," Data corrected him. The android positioned the object carefully under a microscope and pointed to the magnified image on the screen in front of them. "Notice the minuscule perforations on the larger barb end."

It hadn't taken Data long to uncover the barb's secret after Riker had the item sent to the android for examination. He had contacted Riker immediately with his news.

"What am I looking at, Data?" He had taken the evenly spaced pits on top of the rounded head to be part of the object's design.

"Aside from its aesthetic purpose," -(Riker cringed)- "the barb appears to be able to translate sound into a signal, probably digital, and to transmit that signal."

Riker blinked. "It's a comm device?" Incredulity displaced distaste, as hestared at the enlarged image.

"Like none I have ever seen, sir, but yes, like a comm device – although limited in function; it can only transmit. It is not enabled to receive a signal. However-" Riker had been preparing to speak, but Data hadn't finished. "When used in tandem with the ear piece Doctor Crusher took from the corpse, a complete primitive short range unit is formed."

Riker picked up an earing stud Data had laid carefully next to the tongue barb. It was identical down to the pattern of dots on its rounded tip, clearly part of a set but constructed on a smaller scale. It was no wonder Doctor Crusher had been quick to see a connection between to the objects.

The first officer frowned. "Why wasn't this identified when Sem beamed across?" Small finds like this concerned Will Riker. They made him wonder what else was being slipped on board. He had joked about lax standards on Volln'm; was the joke on him, he wondered sickly.

"The device had been disabled – almost certainly before the man joined the Enterprise. Just reactivating it aboard the ship would have been picked up by our sensors."

Riker started pacing. The seemingly covert devices cast a new, sinister shade over the dead man. "Does this tell us anything definite about Sem?"

"The barb has no manufacturing history. Comm barbs are not listed on any Federation company production list, nor any of the non-Federation worlds that we have records for. It's design is simplistic, sir. It could have been privately made and some time ago at a guess."

The first officer struggled to control a sudden desire to hurl the earing across the room. He desisted, possibly from the realization such a small object would not make much of a mess and he would not derive any satisfaction. But he was unable to keep the ire out of his voice when he said: "So it's another dead end in this investigation."

His frustrations were steadily mounting again. There was no shortage of leads – but nothing had turned into anything more concrete. The Volln'm ambassador had not recognized the dead man and Beverly was yet to turn up anything solid on the origins of the venom. Computer security logs failed to identify anything out of the ordinary about Sem's movements. They showed the man had been wandering the ship's corridors (but not attempting to access any thing he shouldn't have been). His wanderings had been random, which fitted in with Troi's reading of the man before he struck her. There were no records of anyone else being in the vicinity of the counselor or the attachee-imposter when he attacked her. And, after interviewing everyone who had joined the ship at Starbase 313 Troi had only been able to come up with a funny feeling about one or two of the travelers – hardly solid, damning evidence.

Data's face remained calm. "Perhaps not totally. The covert nature of the items suggests the transmitter and receiver were deliberately designed to look harmless. In some cultures a tongue and ear piercing may have drawn a lot of unwanted attention."

"So...suppose, in the dead man's culture, they were the norm, or at least not unusual enough to provoke comment?" Riker said hopefully. "Do you know of such a culture, Data?"

"Certain Volln'm cultures habitually wear tongue and ear stud pairs."

"What cultures?"

Data cocked his head to the side. "Perhaps culture was the wrong word, Commander Riker. Generation is a more accurate term. Tongue and ear stud sets were or are predominantly worn by people from the Volln'm southern hemisphere continent Astrin who fall approximately between the ages of 68 and 42 – this coincides with the rise of a particular musical style, which has been identified as a significant cultural revolu-"

"Thank you, Data," Riker said gently cutting off the android. "It puts Sem in the right age bracket."

He stared at the screen, deep in thought. "So, on the balance of known probabilities it's at least fair to start with the assumption Sem was from or had ties to Volln'm," he said finally. Unconsciously he stroked his chin. His companion waited patiently.

"Can we make any links between Volln'm and the delegation head from the Dunedin Institute?"

Data's facial features assumed a practiced quizzical look. "None, sir. Commander, you are thinking of Counselor Troi's report yesterday?"

"Without her empathic abilities Troi can only go on her intuition," Riker said as though he were brushing off the suggestion.

"But you are giving her assessment some thought," Data stated, prompting the officer to elaborate.

Riker hesitated at first, but thought better of keeping what he knew to himself. "The delegation head, Sudamen, told me his group nearly got on the _Bounty_. I didn't think anything of it at the time. After Vale briefed us yesterday with the results of the guest interviews, I felt it expedient to check on him. Troi may not have her usual skills to work with, but intuition can be a strange and uncanny thing, Data."

"I believe you, commander Riker," Data replied sincerely.

Thinking of Troi reminded Riker he owed the counselor a visit – to check on her. It had upset him to learn she had lost her sensing ability again. Vivid memories of the cold and brittle voice she had used to reject his concern last time such a thing had happened had made him wary about approaching her. Yet, she had seemed - well, if not completely herself - at the least controlled yesterday at the meeting. When he had woken in her cabin, he had picked up no sign she was distressed in any way. Her face had been pale, but she hadn't offered any clue to her condition. Word had only gotten back to Riker once she had been checked by the doctor. Picard told Riker, but said the information was to go no further than the senior staff. Troi had felt - as her ability in this area would usually be invaluable - it would be inappropriate to allow her colleagues to operate on the assumption they could rely on this particular area of her expertise.

He had briefly entertained the idea of visiting her the previous night, but other plans had overtaken him, and he decided, given her attack and her disrupted sleep, she was probably going to rest early that night. Unsure the danger to her was past, Vale had maintained the security detail monitoring the counselor, so, satisfied she was safe, Riker had put off the visit. He had every intention of seeing her tonight, though. He was confident she had been feeling in a more sociable mood today – he could just tell.

For a second night his own sleep had been deep and restful. He put the dreams which had afflicted him for weeks down to anxiety. The events of the past few days probably unconsciously brought home to him how much more important the ship's problems were compared to his personal issues – how foolish it was to be worrying about something as crazy as an invisible bond when an unknown quantity was out there threatening staff and passengers.

The reminder triggered a sudden flood of anger – that Troi was in her current state, injured and possibly still at risk, with a large question mark hanging over the circumstances and which required solving.

Riker's fist clenched around the earing in his hand. He gritted his teeth.

"Sudamen appears to check out. He's been on the role at the institute for more than ten years. However, I also checked the _Bounty's_ flight schedule – she left _Volln'm_ and, after a brief stop at Miros V to collect additional cargo, she was supposedly on route to Ark11 without any other stops planned along the way. Her previous five flight plans went nowhere near Caldos. If Sudamen is telling the truth, the Caldosan group was on Volln'm – that's where they eventually caught the _Fleur-de-lys_. Not only that, the _Bounty _was not carrying any passengers – just freight."

Data nodded. "You are trying to connect the Dunedin Institute with the Bounty and the death of the man in the Jefferies tube?"

"The coincidences are starting to stack up, don't you think?" Riker knew he was missing a piece of the puzzle, the key that would unlock the whole situation, hanging tantalizingly before him. _What else can you tell me_, he thought to the tiny piece of metal in his palm.

Aloud, he said, "This comm unit, Data - you said it could've been privately made. What kind of technology did you say was used in it?"

"Actually, sir, I did not. Its technology is at least one hundred and fifty years old – certainly out-of-date by the standards of today but effective none-the-less. The barb itself is likely to be just as old."

Riker pinched the stud between his thumb and forefinger, marveling that such an innocuous thing could be capable of completely unsettling him. It seemed better suited to being someone's tacky old family heirloom, rather than a cunning espionage device. The longer he looked, the more transfixed he became, still confused by the object's place in the scheme of the investigation. A misplaced heirloom – one of only two things that stood out among a dead man's few personal items and said, "there's more to me than you can see".

An heirloom; the kind of thing you might expect to see in a museum – although, since it was not strictly just an ornament, he wondered what sort of museum would take this trinket. The earing wasn't giving up anymore of its secrets this day; Riker reluctantly set it back in a receptacle and steered the conversation in another direction.

"I've been so focused on the death I'd put consideration of the _Bounty's _fate to one side. Can you bring me up to speed on that investigation?"

"We now have all available documentation involving the cargo, as well as crew information. The _Bounty's_ cargo manifest lists a variety of historical artifacts of farming nature. However, there were no listed passengers. The fifteen humanoids listed on board were crew, working for a goodwill export business, which leases the ship from its owner, a Terran."

"Where was the crew from?"

"Earth, Tcholm, Volln'm, Miros V and Andor."

Little could be gleaned from the personnel files. None of the crew were flagged for any kind of Federation misdemeanors. All were properly accredited for their respective trade positions. Several even had civilian Star Fleet commendations for activities during the Dominion War.

Reading the accompanying citations grounded Riker – reminding him fifteen more lives could have been mysteriously wiped out for no discernible reason. Reaching the end, he shook his head painfully, before considering what else might be concealed in the manifest information.

"Can you pull the cargo list up on screen?" He asked Data quietly.

The information displayed itself before him. He scanned what seemed to be a list of pre-first contact farming equipment; tractor, steam engine x2, he read; tractor, diesel engine x1; tractor, solar/electric engine x1; tractor, wind/electric engine x1; eradicator, insect x2; eradicator, insect (Bfrt 20) x1; eradicator, parasite x2; harvester, combine x3; harvester, scythe x4; husbandry, kennel x4; chainsaw, diesel x2.

"Provenance information was also included, although differing regulations on certain planets means the information may not be complete by Terran standards," Data said, bringing up diagrams, pictures and charts of the items.

They studied the pictures, checking each item's components for possible tritium sources. When they had gone through the entire list Riker mentally crossed off avenues of research he had been over and others he still had questions about.

"Who was set to receive these things?"

"The items were being transported on behalf of Solomon Kempt, a Terran representative. Actually, commander, Mr Kempt is a member of Ark11's executive council. He has also been in charge of accessioning items for a rural technology museum on the planet."

"Fun," said Riker with Vulcan-worthy intonation. "Are all these items from Earth, then?"

"The list does not include a complete provenance of the items, which is not illegal on some planets, sir. But I believe all the items can be traced back to various points of time in earth's history."

"Let me guess...one of those inconveniently sloppy planets is Volln'm?"

"Yes, sir."

The first officer glanced back at the screen which displayed a graphic of the last object on the list – a bulky, inelegant object called a chainsaw.

Out of curiosity he asked, "Do we have cargo information from the _Fleur-de-lys_?"

"The captain only sent..." the android paused, his features adopting a perplexed expression.

"What is it, Data," Riker inquired, hoping the look boded well for the investigation.

"Commander, Captain Kogaru transmitted the passenger list as per my request, but it appears additional corrupted information was attached in the message."

"What kind of information?"

"I believe the captain has somehow accidentally included diagnostic data from the _Fleur-de-lys _in the transmission."

"You've only just noticed?"

"I initially believed it to be junk data. Very few lengthy caches of transmitted data arrive without some form of datawaste. My subroutines are programmed to search for patterns in the junk, to ensure that is what it is."

Riker felt a rush of excitement. "This could be a lucky break," he exclaimed.

"Please do not raise your hopes too high, sir. I believe other than the cargo list, which appears of a very similar nature to the _Bounty, _the rest of the information pertains to the ship's environmental controls and recycling systems."

"Recycling, huh? I keep hearing that word lately." Riker felt insanely uplifted. It _could_ be nothing. Then again, maybe there was more to it.

"I'll take it as a sign, Data. Just continue to let those subroutines process away. Let me know if you can pull anything else out of the junk. And now," Riker paused to check the time. "It might be time to have another casual word with Sudaman of Caldos."

"I do not understand the link."

"Intuition, Mr Data. Intuition. Now, where do you think I can find him at this time of day?"

"At the end of Alpha shift, in less than fifteen minutes, I am attending a workshop the anthropologist is conducting. Sudamen is never far from her, I have observed."

"Right you are then. I was going to sit this session out, but it looks like I'll have to make an exception."

-oOo- -oOo- -oOo-

The officers left Data's rooms, heading to deck 14 where the workshop was being held. As they traversed the ship's main thoroughfares, crew members flowed to and fro. People were smiling. Their conversations sounded cheerful. Riker could only marvel at the difference a day could make. They overtook a lieutenant (off-duty) from stellar cartography doing a kind of head-nodding, finger-clicking shuffle down the hallway all the while crooning tunelessly under his breath "_you are the last drink I never should have drunk, you are the body hidden in the trunk, you are the habit I can't seem to kick, you are my secrets on the front page every week, you are the car I never should have bought, you are the train I never should have caught..."_

At first Riker assumed the black muffs covering the man's ears must have been a new fashion trend or some sort of hearing device, until he noticed a tiny metal object in the man's hands and recognized it to be an old-fashioned listening device. He couldn't keep himself from turning back to look.

"Genuine twenty-second century Yong bix. Family heirloom," the officer called out loudly without removing the gigantic earphones and letting Riker know the first officer had been caught staring.

"Bix?" Riker mouthed, perplexed.

"Band-in-box." The lieutenant grinned back.

After weeks of sullen looks and quiet seething, Riker found the mood shift unnerving. He and Data shared a turbolift with three ensigns lugging three large upright cases. The ensigns backed into corners, hugging their cases tight to make room for the pair.

"Another chamber music concert coming up, Zarn?" Riker asked the ensign standing next to him.

"No, sir – the quintet's been asked to help out one of the Ark11 guests. We're getting along early to go over the music."

"This could be interesting," Riker said lightly to Data, once the musicians had eased themselves out onto deck 14. The pair stepped out behind them. "She's resurrected the ship's usually defunct brass band, as well."

"You have also attended one of her workshops?"

"Sure, a few of us got together for an impromptu session yesterday. How did you get recruited?"

"Lieutenant Quiong in Science introduced me to Lark yesterday. She encouraged me to come. That I am an android seemed to fascinate her inordinately. She affixed one condition only to my attendance."

Riker chuckled. "Ah, yes...the homework component. Were you able to complete the task?"

The anthropologist had explained her reasoning yesterday. Where possible she liked people to research what she called the wealth of Terran millennial music, she had said. Her task for beginners, as she called them, was to find and be prepared to present a song which illustrated some aspect of themselves. She was generous in her timeframe – her motivation on the ship was more about fostering enjoyment in any old period music, not strictly adhering to academic definitions.

"I have not yet made up my mind. I have narrowed my options down to two songs. Now I must decide which I prefer. It is not easy. There are aspects of both songs that I enjoy."

"How do you decide what you prefer?"

"Before the emotion chip was inserted I understood and appreciated music as mathematical formulae. However, I had no capacity for preference. I still understand music in its mathematical form, chordal progressions, tempo, melody are all factored into the equations but now I find myself favoring some equations over others – with no clear reason for doing so."

"Sounds almost human to me."

"But now I am in a quandary...I like two songs equally and have no way to discern between either.

"Data, it's not an exam so you can't get the answer wrong. In the old days this is where I'd tell you to flip a coin. Tell you what, assign your first choice as song A and your second as song Z. Okay?" Riker looked to Data for confirmation.

"If the doors of the turbolift on the right open next choose song A. If the left ones open first then it's song Z."

"You mean leave my decision to chance?" Data made a serious face. "Okay, I will try it your way."

After a full thirty seconds Riker wished he had come up with a quicker method of solving the dilemma. The android, however, had committed to the task. Eventually the doors of the turbolift on the right opened.

"Song A it is," Data said, satisfied.

Several more crew members carting guitar-shaped cases exited. Riker stepped in after them, but held the door open to ask Data one more question.

"Out of curiosity's sake, what songs did you get down to?" He wondered what might have captured the android's attention; what Data would choose for self-representation. "Don't keep me in suspense," he said.

"Lark was insistent we not reveal our songs to anyone."

"I don't remember her saying-" The first officer looked suspiciously at the android.

"Have you decided not to come, commander?" Data asked innocently.

Riker opened his mouth to speak, but paused, before changing his mind. "I'll be there," he ended lamely. "Just a bit late – I can't come without my own instrument, now can I? Otherwise I might be expected to sing..."

-oOo-

On his way to his cabin Riker detoured, heading to Ten-Forward because he knew Troi would be there. He'd learnt his lesson last time she'd been _sans sense_ and was determined to give her as much space and/or support as she needed. He'd given her the space; now, it was time for support.

Tracking down the Coldasan could hamper that plan, unless he could persuade her to come along. Besides, she might get more from the man if she saw him again.

The convenience of getting Sudamen in an informal environment - for what he hoped would come across as an informal chat - was too good to pass up. Considering the ship would be arriving at Ark11 in little less than twenty-four hours made it imperative that they get as much information out of him before he disembarked.

When Riker arrived at the ship's most popular off-duty destination he was surprised to discover the doctor, but no Troi.

Crusher waved him over cheerfully. When he neared her she got a glimpse of his chagrin.

"You just missed her," she said laconically, pointing to a half-melted ice cream concoction in a bowl next to her.

"I could have sworn my instincts were right..." Riker said.

"Your instincts are fine. It's your timing that's a bit off. She got called away about five minutes ago. A crew member in engineering just received some bad news from home, I think."

Riker digested what Crusher said. Ensign Blake's news concerned him and he made a mental note to personally approach her tomorrow after the counselor had briefed him on the situation, but he couldn't disguise a far more pressing concern.

"How's Troi doing?"

Beverly fixed an unblinking gaze on him, letting her eyebrows emphasize her clinical amusement.

"As her doctor I'm not telling you and you should know better. As her friend, I'd say nowhere near as badly as she could have been."

"Any sign of the empathy, you know, returning?"

"Still nothing. She's striving too hard to remember why she was on that deck the other night. I think she's taking the memory loss quite hard. I've noticed Betazoids tend to take head injuries as the ultimate form of cosmic insult. At least it's giving her something to brood on other than the other thing..."

"Did she give any indication how long she was likely to be with Ensign Blake tonight?"

"No, but she pretty much resigned herself to the loss of the dessert -d'you want it?" Crusher pushed the bowl Riker's way. He took in the slushy remains, fastidiously shaking his head.

"Look, Beverly, I was hoping to talk to her tonight, but if she's gonna be a while – well, I might as well go back to the workshop. Why don't you come along? See what all the fuss is about?"

The doctor needed little persuading, quickly agreeing to join the first officer. Gossip traveled quickly on board. She was keen to meet the woman who had apparently managed to turn the first officer's head.

-oOo-

_/watch?vV3Kd7IGPyeg_  
_Like a Friend,_ Pulp and Patrick Doyle_/watch?vsnouZdW2IWg&featurerelated_


	8. White Flag

Chapter 7

**White flag**

Dessert – amazingly – was right where she had left it. Only now it was a mottled brown, goopy soup and not the scrumptious pyramid of chocolate drizzled ice cream she had ordered an hour ago. It took Deanna Troi several seconds to decide if the dish still looked appealing.

"At what point did it lose its power to captivate and enthrall me," she lamented, hands on hips and sighing as a harried waiter approached.

"Alas," the waiter said, peering down at the bowl. "Brought forth in such a spirit of anticipation, only destined to be consigned to join the leftover meatloaf and X'tulian stew in the ship's regurgita...oops, I mean recycler...that is."

He threw her a swift and cheeky grin. "Unless you had other plans for a more fitting disposal -"

He broke off when he saw her glare. Plenty of people had peculiar food foibles – it confused her why hers in particular should be singled out for ship wide amusement.

"I'll just leave you to it, then counselor," the young waiter said, backing away. "We're a few hands short tonight, anyway – I should probably be getting back..."

Troi did a double take. But for waiter, herself and two Andoran officers Ten-Forward _was_ empty. With her empathic abilities she would have unconsciously registered it. Numbed, she had to draw on her simpler abilities. The room was _unusually_ empty. There were signs, however, the place had been occupied – used glasses and plates on tables through out the room lay waiting for collection.

"Where did everyone go?" she asked as she scanned the room, noting the Andorans were bent over their glasses deep in conversation. One nodded slightly as she caught his eye before returning his attention to his companion who was talking. She guessed the topic of the conversation to be something serious, relying on their stiff postures and sombre expressions to form her judgment.

"Don't you know?" the waiter answered with some surprise. "Just about everyone on board – including half our staff - has gone mad about some traveling earth history specialist. She's giving a lecture or something tonight."

"You didn't want to go?" Troi asked with interest.

"Heck, no," he replied. "I spent years trying to avoid history classes at school – I'm not gonna willingly subject myself to further torture."

Troi smothered a smile, resisting a comment about youth – and – there it was; sense. His light heart, his stubbornness, his need to be liked and accepted. She knew what the young man was feeling. The realization unsteadied her and she put a hand out for balance.

The waiter didn't notice. He was already turning to leave. A flood of adrenaline coursed through her body. Her heart racing, she backed into a chair. She wanted to scream for joy, relief and several days of pent up stress.

But her elation was short lived.

She closed her eyes to focus on the feelings of the officers on the other side of the room – and found herself in the same black space she'd been experiencing since the incident in the corridor. She felt nothing – as though she was sitting alone in a cold, dank and lightless room.

Determined to focus on the positives, she forced herself to sit still, reassessing what she thought had just happened.

She and the waiter had been talking, and then suddenly, the connection had opened. _Did talking trigger it_, she wondered. The waiter had disappeared behind a counter. She tried to find him in her mind. With a little mental pushing - her forehead dampened at the exertion – she found a faint tingle of emotion with enough youth about it to belong to the youth. He was there – a tiny pinprick of light in the dark space.

The Andorans were still blank to her. She considered interrupting their conversation, but the intent on their faces hadn't changed and she concluded they wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. Instead, she concentrated on her one beacon of hope – the flickering sense of the waiter as he went about his duties.

As she sat, not really seeing, half-remembered images started to stir in her mind. She knew they were there – like tiny fish darting just below the surface of a pond. Almost visible if one knew where to look, but then moving too quickly for the eye to catch. She silently willed them to still and rise closer to the surface.

A voice calling from a short distance startled her out of the trance.

She turned in the direction of Captain Picard, keeping the frustration from her features. She could see him, she could hear him, but she had had no sense of him.

"Counselor?" Picard asked again.

"Captain," she acknowledged, indicating he should pull up a chair if he wished.

He smiled as he did so. With a casual glance about the room he noted: "Looks like I picked the wrong night to do a little socializing".

"You're welcome to join my party," Troi replied.

He smiled again. "What are we celebrating?"

She weighed up whether to tell him, then decided it couldn't hurt.

"For the briefest of seconds I felt like my old self just a moment or two ago."

Her grip tightened as she waited to feel anything from her captain. Surely, if her sense was returning a friend's feelings should be easily picked up.

He must have seen the disappointment in her face.

"Beverly is confident things will be back to normal in a matter of days, Deanna. What gave you the impression you were on the road to recovery?"

She laughed. "I know it'll come back, Captain. Will was never gone, at least. My sense is just being selective. Moments ago I was talking to a waiter and, suddenly, there it was – his emotions. I can still sense him – he's feeling quite pleased with himself tonight – but for all _I_ feel, other than Will, he might be the only person in the universe. I did wonder if talking might trigger the ability, but since I've been talking to you nothing seems to be happening. It's odd."

Picard leaned back. "I can only imagine how frustrated you must feel."

"Even more so, now that I know it's nearly back," she admitted. "You know, before you came in, I felt I was on the verge of remembering a bit more about the attack – or at least why I was where I was."

"Oh?"

"Alas," she said, adopting a whimsical air and unconsciously echoing the waiter's comment to her minutes ago. "Whatever was verging has retreated. Perhaps all it needs is more sleep."

"Would you settle for the comforting presence of an old friend who can finally resurface after completing the rough copy of his eagerly anticipated speech on prehistoric Metexilan agricultural and hunting techniques?"

"Always," she said. "If I didn't know better I'd say my other so-called old friends had abandoned me."

Chin in hand, Picard glanced around the nearly empty room.

"Counselor, is something going on I don't know about?"

She grinned. "If I tell you, you won't ditch me?"

She waited for his expression of confusion to relax. "I know only that one of our recent guests has made an impact on various crew members. I had thought Beverly was free of it, but since she left Ten-Forward before I got back, I suspect she's fallen as well."

Her explanation did not help her commanding officer.

"A sudden craze for Terran millennial music has swept the _Enterprise_, Captain," she clarified. "A certain Caldosan musical specialist is, as we speak, no doubt introducing a new generation to the wonders of-" Here she stumbled. "Actually, I don't know much about the specifics of music from that era – but you can understand what I mean."

"And all the crew are interested?" Picard asked.

"Most of the Terrans, at least," she said. "I don't know what she does – some kind of hybrid lecture-workshop thing - but apparently it involves audience participation."

The captain paused, considering, before he commented. "Well, if it's alright with you, counselor – provided you have no plans to expand your repertoire of gangster hip-hop – I'll stay right here for as long as you want the company of a friend."

"Gangster what?" She laughed.

-oOo- -oOo- -oOo-

Riker's assumption about the Coldasan group leader was on the mark. He spotted the man already seated and close to the front of the auditorium moments after he and Dr Crusher entered. Sudamen was surrounded - the theater was filling quickly - but his large frame and hulking dark presence drew the eye. Finding _any_ free seat in the room would be as much trouble as trying to get close to the man, Riker realized ruthfully as Beverly pulled him along the aisle to several free seats up the back.

A song – a millennial standard he recognized for once – played in the background as people seated themselves. Bright and catchy, the tune about poor old Johnnie Ray (whoever he was) sounding sad upon the radio, set a light mood. The room hummed with a buzz of expectation.

He and the doctor cast about for two empty seats together. The popularity of the sessions had grown exponentially – which amused Riker. Crazes were not unheard of on starships – in fact they were a norm and considered necessary – within reason - by health practitioners for providing balance and stimulation – but even Riker had to admit the rate at which this one had caught on was breathtaking...and completely unexpected.

_Who could have predicted this_, he wondered. In the thirsty-for-knowledge-crew of the _Enterprise_ Lark had found a perfect audience. The evocative glimpse into a turbulent period of time, the revelation of its musical treasures, the stunning accessibility of emotion inherent in so much of the music Lark introduced – all somehow speaking through centuries to people looking for an outlet for powerful feelings bubbling dangerously beneath of a rigid veneer of discipline and regiment. Somehow Lark had tapped into a source, which being old, was actually new to many of the crew now encountering it.

He had initially considered himself intrigued but immune to its intoxication. A fair musician with more than a passing interest in early jazz masters, he had always believed his knowledge of twentieth and twenty-first century music to be comprehensive. Lark's quick, but effective lecturing, had eroded that belief. And he had to admit, her passion and way of presenting it had pull - even he was eager to know more.

He looked around again.

A few, but by no means the majority, had instruments and were in the process of preparing in the performance area at the bottom of the amphitheater. The millennial anthropologist was centered in a group of the musicians, Data standing next to her. A smile never left her face as conversation flowed back and forth between members of the group.

Riker remembered the case in his own hand, wondering if he should join them, then recalled his principle reason for coming tonight. There would be a chance for that later he thought as he stowed the case by his feet and sank into the chair Dr Crusher had secured for him. Right now he had to think of a way to get unobtrusively closer to the big man sitting on the other side of the room.

It seemed Sudamen hadn't moved since Riker entered the room. His arms were still crossed, his shoulders still hunched forward. If Riker hadn't witnessed the flicker of a grin sent Lark's way when she turned and called up to him, he would have concluded the man was here under sufferance. He wondered what to make of Sudamen's gruff exterior and wished. In conversation the large man was always exceedingly polite - even humorous. But when unengaged by the talk around him he seemed to withdraw into a solitary state - and one that didn't encourage intrusion. Riker wished, not for the first time, Troi was here.

_No use wishing for what you can't have_, he reminded himself, bringing his attention back to the theater.

The movements of several musicians grabbed his attention. He studied the concentration of two guitarists as they carefully tuned their instruments; the closed eyes and expression of satisfaction as a violinist played a basic major scale, slowly drawing her bow across the instrument's strings. An ensign was gesturing to bits and pieces on a massive drum kit, clearly demonstrating the basics to an interested lieutenant. The lieutenant's faced broke into almost rapturous maniacal excitement as he sat at the kit and started crashing and banging with no finesse or sense of rhythm, but plenty of enthusiasm. His reign was brought to an end when the ensign – hands over ears – made a face and mimed booting the officer off his perch. The lieutenant wrapped an arm across his stomach as he doubled over in laughter.

"Quite the gathering, isn't it?" murmured Doctor Crusher, with an interest equal to Riker's.

Her curiosity was soon rewarded when Lark broke away from the group and went to a small podium placed to the right of the stage. The background music softened. She waited as last minute stragglers found seats, then launched into a welcome and introduction.

"It's really exciting to see so many people here tonight," she started. Her casual manner, her conversational style of talking belied the control she was to exert over the evening's proceedings. Lark, Riker realized, posed some enigmatic quandaries of her own. Shy with some people; supremely posed with others. He listened intently as she revealed some of her background.

"Everywhere I go, I get these ominous warnings about how people don't want to hear about the millennial age – they'd much rather hear a talk on _cooler_ or more sophisticated periods in history."

Out of the corner of his eye, Riker saw a few heads in the audience nodding.

"My own mother wanted me to study the classical retorque period – when I told her I was the dropping twenty-third century in favor of the millennium she told me not to come home that semester. She relented when I threatened never to come home at all, and I guess her first reaction was just that knee-jerk response parents sometimes have when they're worried their kids are about to do something really, really stupid."

Riker had an inkling where Lark was directing the topic.

"I think I was pretty lucky though. In fact, once she let me back in the house – with some of the media I had been assigned to study – she became interested, wanting to know what could have been so good about this period to make me change my whole course of study. Maybe she hoped it was just a passing phase."

She let out a low almost private chuckle before switching to a more business-like tone.

"Anyway, she was trying to be understanding, I guess. When I realized she'd resigned herself to the idea her daughter wasn't going to be some well-respected retorque professor I tried to explain what had attracted me to the era in the first place. I talked about the variety, the range of sounds produced from acoustic and electronic sources, the lyrics, knowledge of music, the experimentation, how its flow and changes represented different generations and cultural subgroups. I talked about the different musical personalities, the venues, the way music was incorporated into the texture of society."

"Who knows," she paused, allowing herself a sweeping glance about the room, "exactly what she thought of _that_ explanation. Her face pretty much looked the same way yours do now – and I mean this as no insult; she looked blank, unmoved...as confused after as before I had opened my mouth. I needed, I realized, a better way of sharing what I _felt_. There was nothing else for it – I challenged her to learn one song and play with me. I'll be honest – I'd been dying to try out some of the songs I'd been soaking in. Having Mother provide accompaniment on her violin was a bit too handy. To her credit, she learned one song – a tune called _The Ocean_. A beautiful song," she finished, more to herself.

If any of Lark's audience recognized the name, they gave nothing away.

"We played together a couple of times and I kept waiting – hoping to see some look on her face, some moment of understanding. We sounded great. I didn't get it. I didn't understand how she couldn't be moved by the music. It wasn't until my father asked what was going on one evening that a little demonstration was arranged. Mother was going to laugh it off, but in the end she agreed to play with me in front of Father – and as it happened a couple – friends of my parents over for dinner. And that's when it happened. We started off as usual, but when we reached an instrumental part of the song out of nowhere this glorious fiddle began to soar – then I looked up from the keyboard I saw a look on her face. My mother never questioned my choice again."

"From that point I started to formulate my own ideas about how to teach people about the music and period of time I had fallen in love with."

"Now, there's a wealth of songs to be rediscovered, unearthed, dusted off and played in the CD player again. Some of you have even gone to great lengths tonight to come with something personal to you."

A young man sitting next to Riker shuffled.

"How about that task, hey? Anyone have any trouble with that one?" A mischievous grin appeared on Lark's face. A few hands half-heartedly rose and more than a few muttered murmurings traveled the room.

"Yeah. That was a wee bit mean. For one thing – you weren't brought up with these songs on high rotation. I confess the point of the exercise was simply a way of forcing you to look a little harder. I mean, really – one song that sums you up? I couldn't do it. Well, some of you gave it a go. And, you've come up with some interesting choices, I have to admit."

Lark spent the next half hour going over some of the songs suggested. She talked about the instruments used in studio recordings verses live sounds, about the musicians, their lives, their views; politics was considered, the general success of the song commercially, the song's saturation in society, whether it left an indelible mark on a culture's psyche or had only localized success. She talked about jingles, movies, anime, elevator music. Obvious influences on songs; how certain songs in turn influenced other artists. On a large screen behind her, she played actual samples, clips, to illustrate her point – the old-fashioned presentation mode only adding to a sense of realism imbuing the talk.

At all stages she invited people to ask questions. And, long before any of the subjects could be exhausted, she announced a change in direction, citing this was when the audience would actively participate in the learning process.

"I don't get you to do this to reproduce a particular sound or song. I want you take a song, look at it, think about it, try it on...to see if you can make it your own. And this stage is not about flawless performance – though I'm told some of you are pretty good musicians. It's about having plain, old-fashioned fun."

She called a short break, but asked people to stay in their seats. Then she started to divide them, talking briefly to people before sending them in various directions about the room. What criteria she used, Riker could not say. The conference theatre room had a series of smaller chambers along the sides and front. Lark would stop and talk to people then point them in various directions.

"Good evening, commander," Lark said when she approached Crusher and Riker. He quickly introduced the doctor.

"Welcome. Thanks for coming," the woman said to Crusher. "I must admit – the number of people who have come is rather gratifying." She laughed. "Sudamen primed me to believe the busy crew of a Starfleet vessel would have better things to do than talk about ancient music." She cast a sly glance at her tour leader who was hunched in a seat looking grumpy.

"He's a bit miffed really – such a snob."

"Oh?" said the doctor.

"Yeah. He thinks having so many people come is going to lower the standard of music."

Crusher raised an eyebrow.

"He's a bit of a purist, actually," Lark confided. "He's not that fond of people tinkering with music he knows and likes. Oh, don't worry," she said when the doctor's expression grew dark. "He acts all grouchy, but really he enjoys it...there's just something about a live performance – however good or bad."

"So how does this work?" Crusher asked.

"Well, the good thing is, everyone gets to do something...but nothing more than they can handle or want," she said, in response to the queasy look on the doctor's face. "No Christina Aguilera solos, I promise."

"Can't I just, well, just spectate?" Beverly asked, giving no indication she understood Lark's musical reference.

"I wouldn't want you to feel left out. But I promise, it won't be anything too demanding and definitely not painful...I hope."

She ending up pointing the doctor to a door where a group of somewhat nervous junior officers were congregating.

"Actually, you can go with her too, commander," she said after a moment's thought. "And don't forget your trombone." She indicated to the case at his feet. When he looked up she still stood before him, twiddling her fingers and shifting slightly on her feet. She added: "I'm fairly confident you'll hate what I've got lined up for you...but never mind...it won't hurt."

Riker opened his mouth, but hesitated a second too long.

"Well?" she said. "Go on, don't just stand there. Shoo." She grinned as she waved a hand at him. Before he could work out what had happened he felt himself being shepherded to the door where Crusher had just disappeared. A quick look back told him Sudamen was still seated – apparently the only exception to Lark's participation rule. There would be time to have a casual word with the man before the evening was finished. He told himself not to worry.

The previous session he had attended had been much smaller and less formal; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect once he passed into the smaller room. He stepped through the door and found a young ensign arranging the people inside. Riker took his place with a euphonium player and a trumpeter. They eyed each other trepidatiously.

Any nervousness newcomers might have been feeling toward the hands-on approach Lark took to instruction were soon dispelled as the divided groups focused on specific tasks. Each group was made up of instrumentalists and singers, and was lead by the person who had chosen the song – ensign Smith in the case of Crusher and Riker. The first officer had no idea where or what Data was doing.

Lark had been right about one thing. Riker grimaced as he studied the music she had assigned him – a rather cheesy brass chorus in a song about babies not crying. He did not flatly refused to take part, but decided he was only doing this because, crass as the song was, it was perfect for the group's less musically proficient singers. Ensign Smith's song seemed the most novice-friendly, which was why she had sent most of the self-confessed tone-deaf crew members to this room, Lark admitted privately to Riker when she popped into the room to see how they were coming along.

"Not that I really believe in tone deafness...That's no reflection on you," she said innocently.

She had a maddening habit of starting a sentence and not completing it, he noted. Almost as if she expected him to understand the full intent of her meaning with only half the ingredients of the thought. She had already wandered away, leaving him to wonder what her precise beliefs on the tone deaf really were.

It was no reflection on the musicians either (a drummer, three guitarists, a keyboardist plus the brass section), who came together in the limited time they were given and managed to give the musical accompaniment a semi-polished sound.

Buoyed by their backing group, the singers settled, proving they were there to enjoy themselves – and damned be anyone who might crush that spirit.

Plenty of inhibitions had been discarded, Riker mused, when the singers let rip on their final practice.

"_Baby don't cry" _repeated ad infinitumwasn't the deepest lyric he could think of, but the way it was sung gave it a sort of energetic pathos. Even the brass backing, giving it an (undeservedly) epic feeling, wasn't so bad when heard in context. And for all the singers' protestations the tune was not completely lost in their rendition.

Theirs was the crowd-pleasing opener and while certainly not perfect, it was delivered with unrestrained gusto. The chorus turned out to be so catchy (and repetitive) and ensign Smith excited enough to challenge their listeners they had no trouble persuading the audience to join in. Riker banished any niggling resentment – the enthusiasm of his group, and the usually quiet ensign's accomplishment raised powerful emotions. This was one ride he wanted to be caught up in.

And he was - well - proud of the crew. He knew this sort of spontaneity only happened because they were willing it to happen. The tide truly was turning on weeks of corrosive cynicism, he thought.

Lark radiated whenever she stepped back on stage to talk to the audience. During the performance she had sat next to Sudamen taking no part in the proceedings, but she held nothing back from her praise. Through the hour they were treated to a range of music which at times seemed to plumb new depths of Terran bizarreness.

Ensigns Sakiko Hasuda and Sachiko Hasuda (no relation) performed a strangely eerie piece about (impossibly) chicken bones, Sakiko making use of two short keyboards, Sachiko dwarfed by a bass nearly as large as she was and which provided most of the rhythm. They had roped in a medic drummer and together they crooned in scarily childlike voices - the odd lyrics contrasting with the melody and harmonies they put to it.

Lark watched in a kind of horrified shock – Riker wondered if the women were playing some sort of musical joke, but before the piece had finished Lark was on her feet leading the clapping.

The audience may not have known what to make of the song, but the musicianship was undeniably worth admiration.

"Officially, ladies," she exclaimed, "that was the creepiest thing I've heard in forever. I loved it!"

She went on to explain the song's place in anime history and allowed the talk to digress into a discussion about strange lyrics (there was plenty of millennial fodder for this exercise). They brainstormed said strange lyrics for five minutes – Lark asking for contemporary examples and matching them with millennial oddities.

"Of course, some of what's strange to us, would have been perfectly normal in millennial times," she said by way of wrapping that topic up. "Although _Mr Zebra_ – as perversely understandable you may be able to convince yourself it is while listening – really, at the end of the day is a very strange song...even by millennial standards."

Riker could only agree. _Ratatouille Strychnine – _definitelynot a friend of mine, he thought shuddering. The calling of a familiar name made him lift his head. Beverly nudged him.

"Data's up," she whispered.

On the stage the android was assembling his musicians. When he had them just so, he turned to address the room.

"After some discussion and reflection I have decided against presenting my initial song choice..."

Lark – perhaps a little rudely – broke in.

"I have to admit I'm still not convinced the song initially chosen by Mr Data is entirely appropriate. It's just, you have to wonder at the wisdom of singing a song about going down with a ship...when you're on one."

She looked apologetically at Data.

"Understandable, doctor," he placated her. "I have prepared another song which could be more pleasing than _White Flag_. You are familiar, I am sure, with the song _Stars Like a River. _Singer David Auden died by his -"

"Disappeared," Lark interjected sharply for a second time. For the first time Riker could remember the woman looked less than happy.

"If that is a euphemistic way of saying he killed himself, then yes – he disappeared," Data replied, restraining an element of confusion in his voice. Lark's expression twisted subtly. Riker would have said she now appeared puzzled. He had seen almost the exact expression on another face recently – Troi struggling to remember the events that had led her to the point of her attack the other night.

A rumbling cough from the seats prevented the Lark from replying.

"Oh. Well. That's a bit morose, isn't it," Sudamen said, moving forward from his seat. He had sat quietly through the session and had clapped politely at the end of each act. Now, he was clearly taking a hand in directing the occasion.

"No, no. We can't have the pall of suicide hanging over us tonight. Let's have only happy music...I insist. How about that duet you prepared for Mr Data? I seem to remember you rubbing your hands in anticipation at that one this morning, Lark."

Lark's face flowed from blank confusion to acquiescence. If she was about to say more about the subject, she had changed her mind.

"Okay," she said quickly.

Riker wondered if there was somehow more she wanted to say on the subject, but she gave a little shake on her head and turned to a couple of the musicians who had shown particular aptitude for millennial rock.

"How 'bout it? A little _Whole of the Moon_? - You had a quick practice, didn't you? Think you could handle that, guys, Data?"

She barely waited for a nod from the android or musicians before signaling the song's beginning notes.

"This should speak for itself, I think," she said glancing at Data over the opening chords. "Mr Data this morning assured me he would humour me with a duet at some point...I thought of this song almost as soon as I met him."

"_I pictured an rainbow -"  
_"_You held it in your hands."  
_"_I had flashes -"  
_"_You saw the plans."  
_"_I wandered out in the world for years, while you just stayed in your room."  
_"_I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moon."_

If the mood of the room had been abruptly punctured before, the woman and the android duetting blew away the uneasiness.

They passed the lines between each other – the imagery they created with the lyrics and their very beings – casting a fabulous shade of musical humor.

The song was perfect, Riker reflected. _What does Data make of it, I wonder. _Would he understand the irony of the song reflected on his own being?

Between human and android, which of them really saw the whole of the moon?

The performance earned a rowdy ovation. Even the gloomy Sudamen was roused enough to applaud. Lark threw her arms around the ship's second officer as the music drew to close. When she released him (Data seemed to be having trouble knowing where to look), she spoke loudly.

"Data, it's possible I've waited the whole of my life for just the right person to sing that with me."

"The pleasure was all mine," he replied humbly.

The lesson...session...finished on a high note when a cryptobiology expert organized both her workshop group and the audience to sing along to the chorus of _We will Rock You _followed quickly by _We are the Champions_.

No one seemed to find either song distasteful or offensive – and yet the brazen content of the lyrics could almost be said to epitomize the worst characteristics of the era. Instead, put into context, the strutting cockiness of the first song and the lofty bombastry of the second suddenly made more sense than they once had – the songs were not unfamiliar to a number of the crew, Queen being one of those groups routinely referred to whenever the millennium was raised.

The hours he had recently spent dissecting Y2K and its culture had soften Riker's stance on the music of that age. There was food for thought he decided and a subtlety in melody previously he had not been willing to concede. It would take, however, vast quantities of synthetic alcohol poured down his throat before he would be ready to join with the raucous crowd stamping their feet and singing "_we will, we will rock you_" as they exited the theater and made for whatever destination on the ship they had in mind.

He was happy some of the crew didn't seem to have any qualms, though. With the evening at a close some were already leaving while others were milling around chatting. Riker stood up scanning the room on the look out for his prey. He had turned to take in the entire room twice before he realized the truth.

"Damn."

Crusher stood up next him. "He's gone?"

"Yes."

Sudamen was nowhere to be seen in the room. Lark was talking to a group of baby faced ensigns, but her minder had obviously left.

Riker considered immediately tracking the Coldasan down, but hesitated. After a second's indecision he decided it could wait. Somehow several hours of good company, good (translation: different) music and fascinating conversation had removed the sense of urgency he had felt before the evening. It was after all, a short step taking music from magic.

-oOo-

_Baby Don't Cry_, Andrew Farriss - /watch?v0jIR2AKg1lU  
_Chicken Bone_, Gabriela Robin - /watch?vF5-N0zNbw7g  
_Mr Zebra_, Tori Amos - /watch?vvOrLwjR7vT0  
_The Whole of the Moon_, Mike Scott - /watch?vAsNTmjlf1vI  
_We will Rock You_, Brian May  
/watch?vkuNz7q746mg


	9. Fake Plastic Trees

_Dedicated to all fake plastic tree lovers and fake plastic loves_

Chapter 8:

**Fake Plastic Trees**

Troi woke from nine hours of uninterrupted sleep groggy.

As she leaned against the wall in the sonic shower with her eyes shut, she dreamed of nine more hours of uninterrupted sleep. She dried and slowly drew on her uniform, taking her time and hoping the lethagy wouldn't develop into something more unpleasant. She had wanted sleep – had been certain yesterday one more night would cure her - return her sense and memories. Now, here she was: awake, but with her head feeling too heavy for her to register anything. Not even disappointment. But she did know one thing. Behind the fog seeping into her brain, something black and brooding waited. And as bad as things seemed now, she had a premonition they were going to get worse. And maybe it would be better to stay in the shelter of the fog.

She awoke with a gasp.

-oOo-

"I don't know about you, doctor, but when I get shore time I'm gonna check out the Comparative Industrial Technologies Park. Word is the detail gone into the warp core section is phenomenal – every Federation planet's journey to warp speed laid out in a display the size of three _Enterprises_."

Troi caught the tail end of LaForge's comment to Beverly Crusher when she met them heading to the ready room. She marveled that the Chief Engineer could think of shore leave when so many questions still needed answers. She kept the thought to herself though and replied brightly when Crusher, on seeing her, asked what she planned to do during _her_ shore leave.

"I don't know - I haven't given it much consideration," she replied. With so much going on, who would have time for more than a basic exploration of the planet?

"I've heard some of the textile exhibitions are unbelievable...I've always wanted to see how Cheltan silk is prepared. Apparently, the spiderworms have been bred in captivity off-planet for the first time ever. Wanna come with me to see them?"

"Ah, sure," Troi said, concealing her surprise as she side-stepped an inattentive crewman. The _Enterprise_ was six hours from reaching Ark11 and Captain Picard had called a meeting to reassess their progress. Geordi and Beverly's lack of urgency threw her. With an unsolved murder - and whatever else was happening on board - she had expected the engineer and the doctor to show more interest in the subject. The captain was unlikely to sanction any senior staff shore leave while so much remained unexplained.

"Are you okay, Deanna?" Beverly's hawk-like eyes watched as Troi put a hand to her temple.

The counselor waved off her concern. "Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. In fact, if the captain okays any rest and relaxation today, the only place I'm headed is back to bed."

"You don't want a medical opinion?"

"I just had a bad night's sleep is all. I'll live," Troi replied.

"You can't ask for a better prognosis," LaForge joked.

Beverly grinned. "Let me know if you change your mind."

They reached the ready room just as Riker turned into the corridor from the opposite direction. LaForge and Crusher entered but when Deanna started to follow them, a hand shot out. Riker touched her on the arm, halting her.

"You feeling better yet?" His feelings revealed his question's deeper intent. Water never quenched a throat more than the way his concern satisfied and touched her. She was filled with a desire to bask in his affection. She knew better, of course.

A look told Troi the ready room hadn't filled – Data and Christine Vale were yet to arrive. She studied Riker. Their connection infused her with comfort and relieved some of the unease she had been feeling all morning – but she certainly didn't feel obligated to fill him on every little detail of her life. He was looking at her expectantly.

"I'm fine, Will."

"But your empathy?" She was pleased he wasn't treating her or the subject like some delicate flower; wasn't afraid of approaching it head on.

She rewarded him with a straightforward response. "Almost back, I think."

Riker gave her one of his patented boyish smiles. "Thank god. I've kind of missed you not knowing and interpreting my every whim." But his mood didn't tally with his smile. His loneliness swamped her – that and, of course, he was lying – but about what she couldn't discern. Perhaps lying was too strong a word...but he was definitely concealing something.

_Maybe I'm losing my edge_, she thought, her own feelings disengaged.

She wondered if the whole staff was acting bizarrely today. Did Riker think her empathy loss extended to himself? That she couldn't feel him? Did he not know? Had no one told him this wasn't true? That in her cold, bleak world of detachment, he was her one warmth? She had left it up to Captain Picard to inform senior staff about her disability. Had he missed that bit out when explaining the situation to Will? Should she tell him? Did she want to tell him? Shouldn't he have instinctively known? What in hell was happening to them? They may have had their share of ups and downs, but a lack of communication had never been one of them. Why had he not been able to feel her? He didn't see her face as she walked through the doorway. If she had been confused before, now she was disorientated – spun from her own orbit.

But now was not the time to discuss the matter further – Data and Vale were just behind them and she could see Picard at the head of the conference desk looking twitchy. He was eager to proceed, but even he appeared more settled than what she had been expecting.

It didn't take her long to learn why. It was the first thing on the agenda – and it cleared her confusion. When Data had taken his seat – the last of them to do so – Picard started.

"For those of you who haven't heard, Mr Data has furnished us with a likely explanation for some of our recent occurrences. Mr Data?"

As one, the senior staff gave their attention to the second officer.

Data didn't prolong the suspense. "I believe I can provide evidence that the person or people responsible for the death of the man who attacked counselor Troi never boarded to the _Enterprise."_

That lightened the mood of the room.

It had been theorized, but before a thorough assessment had been made, nobody had dared to hope. All things considered, though, that the killing strike against Sem was made before he joined the _Enterprise_ made the most sense. It was just that there were cracks in any system, and as good as Troi knew the _Enterprise_ to be, only a fool would think even she was exempt from fallibility. Still, it was a comfort to think the ship's security hadn't been breached.

"When passenger data was sent to me from the _Fleur-de-lys,_ a junk data was included in the transmission. It is not unusual for data to be transferred this way. An analogy would be that relevant datum fit together like a puzzle to create a picture or, in this case, file information. The outer edge, however, is not straight like an antique two-dimentional puzzle. The outer datum edges fit into the outer datum edges of other files. By reading the known outer edge, which creates a negative image of the adjacent file, I can deduce information stored next to the intended files."

Picard coughed.

"Junk data from the _Fleur-de-lys _turned out to include information about the ship's environmental and life support controls - including regular readouts on the ship's CO2 emissions and reabsorption rates. Passenger and crew manifests indicate no one boarded or disembarked from the ship for fifty hours prior to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_.

"Readouts between forty-eight and forty-four hours prior to Sem joining the _Enterprise_ show a steady, barely fluctuating level of CO2 being produced and recycled - consistent with the number and species of crew on the ship."

Data indicated figures on a chart on the viewer.

"However, you will note between thirty-four and twenty-eight hours_ before_ Sem boarded the _Enterprise, _there was a six-hour period when carbon dioxide levels on the _Fleur-de-lys_ were elevated, with no corresponding variable changes in the environmental controls of the ship."

It was basic science – so elemental most people probably would have missed it – or never bothered to look. This story involved a stowaway – but not aboard the _Enterprise_. Data was suggesting the crew and passenger composition on the _Fleur-de-lys_ had changed when someone slipped on board the small ship. For not the first time Troi found herself thankful Data was who and what he was.

"Was the ship in orbit at that point?" Dr Crusher asked.

"No," replied Data. "The _Fleur-de-lys_ was already intransit, on its way to Starbase 313 to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_."

"Could she have encountered another ship during that period?" LaForge queried.

"Not according to Captain Kogaru. The information she supplied us confirms this. However, security systems on the _Fleur-de-lys_ are not as robust nor as sophisticated as a Federation vessel. Hence, the ship is grounded at Starbase 313 while the moratorium on inadequately shielded vessels is in place. Captain Kogaru accepts a breach likely occured – but she has not be able to identify if or when data was tampered with to conceal the breach."

Vale frowned. "So you're suggesting a stowaway boarded the _Fleur-de-lys_ rigged Sem up with the poison patch, and departed six or so hours later? And that's a reasonable explanation?" She didn't look convinced. "How do we explain where Sem's body was found?"

Dr Crusher took over from Data. "It will help you to know, Christine, that old fashioned though it is, this method of homicide isn't unique."

She looked around the faces at the table. "I've learned just this morning that snake patches used to be a popular way of dispatching organized crime associates – those who have usually been branded traitors, in fact. The variety of venom was considered a calling card. Anyone eager to venture a few guesses as to where this charming practice arose?"

Vale looked disgusted. "Let me go out on a limb," she said. "Volln'm?"

Dr Crusher nodded. "The poison was a neurotoxin which worked on Sem's central nervous system. Perhaps he knew something was wrong, panicked and climbed into the Jefferies tube to hide himself. He would have started to convulse. The paroxysms would have caused him to thrash around. He might have jammed himself quite successfully down the tube, without a helping hand."

Troi had flashes of shadows and pain – half-remembered feelings from the man's dying minutes. He had attacked her - she had no doubts about that - but she struggled to make sense of his lack of malice. She blinked when she realized Data had taken over again from the doctor.

"Despite careful examination, no trace of a third person was ever found at the scene. It is the simplest explanation."

The doubtful expression on Vale's face didn't abated. "But is it enough for us to step down our security coding?"

"It's enough to shift the investigation back to the _Fleur-de-lys_ for the time-being," Picard said, forestalling her opposition. "And it means we can let our passengers go without unnecessary delay. Granted, we still have little information about the impostor Festa Sem but if the fatal blow, as it were, was delivered on a private trading vessel, investigation into his death no longer falls within our jurisdiction. It will be up to the Federation Security force to oversee the rest of it."

Riker had been unusually quiet during the meeting. He chose now to speak, indigation racking his voice.

"An attack on one of our staff must still be investigated, surely?" Around the table the others nodded. The criminal act that led to Sem's death may not have happened on their ship, but Troi had been struck down in a corridor on the _Enterprise_.

Picard looked troubled. "And it won't be forgotten, Number One. But until we have something solid to go on – who Sem was, who he was working for, who his associates were – we can't take the matter forward. These are questions the security force is in a better position to look into. Data will act as a liaison with the chief investigator, who officially takes over the case when we reach Ark11 orbit."

Picard looked at Troi. "Counselor, no doubt the FS will want to interview to you about the attack as soon as possible."

Troi nodded. "Of course, Captain," she murmured. The was no trace of tension on her face, but she had to strain to maintain her concentration. As the meeting wore on she had become increasingly aware of a buzzing centered in the back of her head. She failed to pin down the source; it was like a mosquito zizzing just beyond her vision, but she knew the noise was in her mind. And it was distracting. She gripped the arms on her chair to prevent herself squirming in discomfort.

Picard continued, oblivious. With the most pressing issue dealt to, he ran through the progress (or lack of it) on other matters. _The Bounty_ was still missing, and no more had been ascertained about a possible nuclear explosion destroying a ship in this sector of the galaxy. Since, again, neither strictly fell within the_ Enterprise's_ jurisdiction, they were not regarded as immediate priorities.

If Picard suspected there was a link between the two incidents, he kept it to himself. For the time being their primary goal was to get their guests safely to Ark11. Once that mission had been completed, it was probable they would be routed to take a closer look into the peculiar space debris.

In the meantime, discussion was directed to shore leave. Now that the investigation out of their hands, the crew was free to experience the planet's opening celebrations for themselves. A week ago that news would have had bad reception from the majority of the lower deck crew. Not so any longer. She was too tired to smile at the thought now; that a crew - the _whole_ crew of a large star ship – did not want leave wasn't the norm on a Star Fleet ship. But somehow, in the space of a week, something had happened to turn that feeling about – sadly, without her benefiting emotionally from it, she mused.

Schedules for shore leave were quickly mapped out. Even with time taken up talking to Federation Security, Troi could see even she was not going to have any excuse for not exploring Ark11. The ship was scheduled to be in orbit around the planet for several weeks.

Later, during a spare fifteen minutes in her office, she tried to get enthusiastic about the planet and its cultural extravaganza. There was plenty going on – one extended month of opening celebrations; plenty to attend and do – but she had trouble summoning the energy to care or get excited.

It all came back to the dream. Data's revelation about a probable stowaway on the _Fleur-de-lys_ may have alleviated the others' fears about the strange dead man, but Troi harbored a doubt this wasn't the end of the line for the _Enterprise's_ involvement in the matter. After several minutes of pointless staring at the muted green wall in front of her, she groaned. It was just so frustrating. By 'it' she meant everything.

Riker acting idiotic, time and circumstance preventing them from having that discussion she _thought_ she wanted, her sensory blindness, her lost memories, the stupid buzzing in her ears, stupid dead men dying and leaving their stupid dead mysteries behind them. And underpinning it all a horrible, mushrooming feeling of...despair? Anguish? Had she been herself, she would have employed a structuring technique to examine and understand better her situation. Today, when she thought about the problem, all she seemed able to do was wallow – just as she had for the last three days. Dealing with other people's problems hadn't been difficult, but when it came to affairs of her own soul: inertia. If only she could work out what she wanted to do – about any of it. If only she could think straight for more than five minutes. _If only_, she thought, sighing.

-oOo-

The storm broke towards the end of the day – but it brought no relief to the counselor. She had known it wouldn't.

The dull, brooding sense and the annoying buzz she had been experiencing all day shattered at the end of a session with an ensign assigned to the ship's security staff.

Ensign White had been responsive throughout the hour, but as her alloted time wound down Troi had picked up some oddities in the young woman's behavior. Mary's hands were curled in her lap and she did a good job of looking attentive, but her foot was tapping. Mary wasn't unwell and the room temperature was set at a comfortable level, so Troi knew she wasn't cold. Every so often Mary's head would flciking to the door. Her answers to Troi's questions had become shorter and more agreeable as the hour drew to its conclusion.

"I think your suggestion that I talk about my concerns with Haj is definitely the best thing I could do, Counselor. I've been avoiding the whole issue – deliberately...I can see that now. I can also see nothing's going to change unless I choose to make it change. I'm going to get right onto it..."

Ensign White's head swiveled and her feet jiggled all at once. Because her head was turned, she missed Troi's expression of shock. By the time Mary turned back Troi was in control again – with a much clearer grasp on the situation.

Standing, Troi said, "If that's the way you feel, Mary, then I won't keep you from it. The sooner you clear the air with Antoli, the happier you'll both be."

Ensign White stood, relieved at her dismissal – ending her impatience and freeing her afternoon for what she really wanted to do. She wasted no time, bounding to the door. Only when she reached it did she look back to thank the counselor.

"Are you okay?" she asked when she saw Troi put a hand to her head.

Troi looked up wanly.

"I'm fine - it's nothing serious, Mary. Nothing to keep you from talking to Antoli."

Troi didn't ask questions when she picked up a fresh sense of guilt. Whatever the ensign was up to this afternoon, the problem she had with her ex-boyfriend wasn't top priority – that much Troi could tell. She wasn't concerned. She knew Mary had not been lying when she said she would talk to her ex _after _whatever it was she really wanted to be doing right now.

When the door closed she fell back in her chair.

Her empathy was back – and so were her memories. She clutched her stomach. Instead of release, a wave of sickness overwhelmed her.

There _was_ a problem on board – some kind of wound, festering and septic; a stealthy character hiding in shadows and creeping through the bowels of the ship unimpeded, guarding a secret. Something terrible had happened to someone on board the Enterprise – something that couldn't be seen in the open, something hidden and secret.

Troi snorted, deriding herself. What problems weren't hidden behind layers of self-deception and denial? Weren't secreted away under layers of happier thoughts and feelings? But _this_ problem...it wasn't that it was worse than anything else she'd ever experienced; it wasn't a presence of evil or of fear – it was just _so_ loud.

It's what had led her over the ship those nights ago – it's loudness making it difficult to pinpoint that night. She had been in bed, trying to sleep away the residue of Riker's malaise which had infected her after their talk. Twisting in the sheets, the fitful moments she had slept had been filled with erotic images of Will and herself.

Over and over in the dreams she would end up reeling away from him, a nightmare as Dream Will dissolved into a husk – a Nightmare Will - and Troi felt lonely. She had been relieved to wake...until she realized that awake, something – a feeling, had begun to gnaw and grow in her - something begging her attention. Almost in a daze she had rolled from the bed, pulled on her new white evening gown, and headed blindly from the room following the feeling. At the back of her mind a fear the problem – as she now referred to it – and Riker were one and the same.

The imposter Sem had ended that search when he stunned her with a blow to her head.

She do things differently today. She would be more careful.

This time she would hunt down the intruder; root out this ill-feeling, which smothered her and made her head an unpleasant place to be. She stood for seconds in the corridor outside the counseling suite, trying to orient herself to the source of the ship's noisiest mental breakdown.

There was purpose - determination - in her stride.

-oOo-

Ten-Forward was bustling. An air of celebration had erupted among guests and crew members alike. The ship was now in orbit around Ark11.

The party, which had been threatening to break out days before, could no longer be contained, had burst in a carnival. (Riker allowed the tumblers to spread festive anarchy in the ship's corridors but he drew the line at fire jugglers.)

Ark11-bound dignitaries were preparing to disembark by mixing with their _Enterprise_ hosts in Ten-Forward. Part of the carnival atmosphere was being driven by the live music show which had been spontaneously organized.

In just a few days, instruments stuffed at the bottom of lockers had been rediscovered, and hidden talents brought to the fore.

The hard months which had preceded this day hadn't been forgotten, hadn't been wiped away. Instead, people were talking - discussing - their experiences. There were literally thousands of songs about war – songs extolling pride, nationalism; howling against injustice and cruelty; the indescribable losses, the ecstasy of reunification; the twin sisters of triumph and despair.

But war songs played equal footing with other types of songs. Apparently there wasn't a love song that had never been written. Riker marveled at the millennial ability to regurgitate itself and its themes over and over again.

The crew had embraced an array of music (which was not exclusively Terran) and while much of it was upbeat, the buried feelings of the guilt he and Troi had discussed days ago, of pain and sadness, still had their place; still needed to be resolved. And now it appeared the crew had a positive outlet to embrace those feelings.

But today, the music, everywhere he went on the ship, was unified by jaunty tempos and random dancing.

The millennial anthropologist Lark, as usual, was in the thick of it.

She had been called upon to join several musicians (crew and civilian staff), who had managed to converge on Ten-Forward. She had been cajoled to play one last song (for old time's sake) and one last song had turned into two and then three last songs, until Sudamen had turned up, and like an unwelcome ion storm, attempted to put an end to the game.

"We'll be beaming planet-side in half and hour, Lark," he yelled from the door. He looked like an impatient parent, Riker thought. Not that anyone else was caring.

"Just one more...we promise," Lieutenant Chalfin from Stellacartography pleaded. The six foot six Terran looked odd, begging his case. Sudamen's expression was inscrutable as he glanced, first at the musicians, and then at Lark. He let out a snort and rolled his eyes, catching Riker's as he did so. There was an element of theatricality to the whole act.

Data's theory and evidence had ended their interest in Sudamen and Riker had given up trying to engineer an informal interview with the man. However, the first officer still considered the Coldasan peculiar, and nothing he did today did anything to dispel that assessment.

"Oh, all right," Sudamen finally replied ungraciously. Although he woulnd't budge from the door, he had a suggesion: "What about that awful Radiohand song you are always playing..._Fake Spastic Breeze_."

His contempt was obvious. Again, the Coldasan glanced at Riker for a second. Riker did a double-take.

"You know perfectly well the band's name was Radiohead and the song is called _Fake Plastic Trees_, Sud...and anyway." Lark looked less than enthusiastic. "As much as I love it, are you sure that's a good song to go out on?"

There it was again. Before he answered Sudamen caught Riker's eye. "The way you sing it, Lark...it's perfect."

She shrugged. After a quick conference with Lieutenant Chalfin and their assorted band members (which ended with a lot of nodding) she spoke to the room.

"My boss has just requested a song from a group called Radiohead. When their second studio album was released in 1997 _Rolling Stone Magazine_ called it the first album of the new millennium – so maybe it's appropriate to play one of their songs. This one comes from a little earlier in the 90's though. It's sort of sad and soaring at the same time – bittersweet, maybe. A bit like playing one last song for you guys.

"_A green plastic watering can for a fake Chinese rubber plant and fake plastic earth..._"

Lark was right. The song was bittersweet. It didn't fit the mood – but its sadness was hypnotic. Except for Riker, all eyes in the room were trained on the singer. A waiter leaned on the counter, chin resting on hand; a young ensign in front of Riker swayed.

But the first officer was studying the great bear of a man still standing at the door.

"_She lives with a cracked polystyrene man, who just crumbles and burns_..."

Riker had to rub his eyes and shake his head before he could truly believe what he was seeing. Even then he struggled to make sense of it. The big man's hand was cupped over his mouth, but as his gazed tracked to the woman whose luminosity filled the room, Sudamen seemed...forlorn. Creases marked his forehead where his brows had pulled up.

As the melody swelled, his head drooped...and the door behind him slid open.

"_She looks like the real thing; she tastes like the real thing - my fake plastic love."_

As if time had slowed a thousandfold, Riker watched as Troi entered the room. Intensity rolled off her in waves - _he_ could feel her; the thought confused him momentarily. But before he had time to consider it, he was ensnared in her intent. She was a hunter. She rounded Sudamen – still lost in his haunting - her eyes locked on another point in the room. She sought the singer's face. Her head was shaking.

Suddenly she stopped. Behind her, Sudamen's head rose. Troi's eyes widened and her mouth twisted in horror. Riker blanched, fearful an image from one of his dreams had come to life. Troi did not move.

Lark was in her own world, oblivious to the scrutiny. Her final lines, devastating: _"It wears me out. It wears me out. And if I could be who you wanted; if I could be who you wanted, all the time, all the time..."_

And, just like that, the song ended. Rapturous applause broke out. The crew whooped and stomped its approval. Riker watched Troi snap to. He saw the confusion break on her face. The song had scarcely died before Lark threw a significant and resolute look at her impromptu band. She grabbed the mic again.

"I refuse to end on that note," she said, pounding the base of the mic into her hand. "Management can go screw itself."

_So this is what they mean when they say a crowd goes wild_, Riker thought, bemused.

The band, privy to her plans, had maniacal grins plastered over their faces. Lieutenant Chalfin branded his own special look of devilry as his fingers started swiping deep, fat notes from his bass guitar.

"_I don't want to be crippled and cracked. Shoulders, legs, knees and back. Ground to dust and ash. Crawling on all fours. When you've got to feel it in your bones_..."

The soft, introspective singer was gone – replaced with a frentic, rasping, swooping performer set to raise the stage with her voice. The band was loving every second of it.

Troi looked lost and sick _and_ blissful; he didn't know how he knew, but he realized she needed rescuing.

Around her people were dancing – and not the stately, elegant dances she was comfortable with. The euphoric frenzy burning up the room normally would have been enough to overwhelm her...

But as lost as she seemed, she had also found something. Something unexpected. She twisted back, her eyes automatically finding Riker's.

He watched her expel a breath, her shoulders rising and falling. There was a look on her face he couldn't identify – some deep emotion bubbling under the surface. Behind her, Sudamen's face stared straight ahead again, but he turned and this time Riker knew he hadn't been mistaken. Six times the man caught his eye – deliberately.

The song was over quickly, but it reduced the audience to a madhouse. With a curt nod to the _Enterprise's_ first officer, the Coldasan steeled his face. Then using a peremptory type of sign language, he nodded at Lark and pointed to the door with a jerk of his hand. She got the message. She made her way as quickly as she could through the crowd to the waiting man. And, just like that, she disappeared out the door.

She had understood him perfectly. _If only I could too,_ Riker thought.

He was about to step to Troi, determined to understand the tense drama that had just played out before him, when he saw her hand flick to her comm badge. He saw her lips move but missed what she said. She threw him one last look of...was it exasperation? and headed quickly to the door.

-oOo-

Riker lay in his bed, resting fitfully for three hours before he decided to stop playing the charade. He got up hours before his shift. He went to the gym; he showered. He read, he reviewed as much information as they had on the dead impostor, on the _Fleur-de-lys_, and on the _Bounty_, trying to render some sense which tied into what Data had told them earlier that day.

After three nights of blissful, precious sleep, his unwelcome night time visitor had returned, and in her inevitable demise, taking the tenuous security he built.

He sat motionless for a half hour, staring the tongue barb he had found in Sem's pocket: the one gift in his rotten dream. For he had woke up knowing, the barb and its earring mate had could a truth to communicate. The dream was the last thing he wanted to remember, but now it was reaching out to him, daring him to look within himself for answers.

Stealing himself, he leaned back and closed his eyes – trying to recall exactly what he had seen.

No matter how it started, no matter where he was – be it in the humidity of the Jalaran Jungle or the cold of an Alaskan glacial valley – she would always come. She would always drape her arms around his neck, run her fingertips across his chest, let her hands travel over his body, and set him quivering while he tried to control his desire to possess her entirely.

In the early hours of this morning, he had failed.

_As he had pressed her hard against a marble column and, as her legs encircled his hips, drawing him into herself, and they moved up and down in a languid and delicious rhythm, she had gasped painfully and exultantly – her cry echoing in the cavernous room._

_It wasn't any place he had ever been to or seen, but his dream sense told him it was an old place. Its hush and awe not broken by, but amplifying – in its high-vaulted ceiling – the ecstasy in this woman's gasps._

_Spent, they slid down the column, clinging to each other and breathing heavily. As he stared up, knowing a peace he had no right to, she lay light kisses over him, and he realized the room was not empty – among the many columns, artifacts were arranged on stands and under glass covers; a white headband, a scrap of paper, a piece of vine, shards of vase – all on display._

_He had murmured to her, calling and asking her to look; her head had lifted, wonder in her eyes as she took in the gallery. Then she had turned to face him._

_She was just as confused as he was. And when his eyes met hers, finally, pandemonium was unleashed._

_Under his hands, her skin began to boil and hiss; flesh roiling and steaming. He scrambled back suddenly, sickened. She opened her mouth and let forth a howl, drawing away from him in terror. Orange flames erupted from her palms – her hands held out in supplication. Transfixed he watched as the flames traveled licked her arms, unrelenting in their hunger. He could do nothing – the weight of his own disbelief rendering him motionless. Before him she ignited, cracked and blackened as the fire consumed her wholly. But her eyes – like holes – never left his; the horror on her face a mirror of his own._

_And he could feel nothing of it._

_He watched helplessly as she disintegrated, slowing blackening the white marble floor with ash. An unexpected noise startled him. He watched in disbelief as huge doors to the room opened and Data, leading a class of elementary school children, skipped through the room – ignoring him – and stopping at each artifact. The children's faces forming big Os as Data spoke – he lips moving in random patterns – not mimicking the singsong chant that was the only thing Riker could hear, repeated over and over and over again._

_"William was a bad man, William was a thief, William came to my house and stole a piece of me, William was a bad man, William was a thief, William came to my house and stole a piece of me, William was a..."_

_He put his hands to his ears but could not rid his head of their voices. And when he closed his eyes, incendiary Troi branded herself on his eyelids. His eyes lay fixed on black ash. Until a shaft of light from an overhead window fell all-too-obviously on something tiny and silver in the dust._

_Dream Riker felt himself moving forward on hands and knees, preparing to pluck the antique tongue barb from the floor. An unexpected shadow fell over him._

_A large shape bent over him and claimed the prize for himself._

_"Tsk, tsk," said the Coldasan, blowing the ashes from his hand and watching them flurry and float. In the light, they glittered like a showman's trick to draw the eye._

_"Tsk, tsk, Mr Riker," he said, holding the barb up to his face, rolling it between his thumb and finger. Light glinted off the ornament._

_He took a sweeping look at the room and suddenly his face snapped in front of Riker's. Dream Riker imagined stale, hot breath on his cheek. For a parsec they looked at each other. Dream Riker jolted suddenly, recognizing something in the man's sad eyes; they had reached an understanding. Then, with melancholy in his voice, the big man started to whisper raggedly and repeatedly._

_Riker strained to hear._

_The voice strengthened. "A mausoleum...a mausoleum...a mausoleum..."_

_Around the hall, Sudamen's voice echoed louder and louder, until Riker bolted upright, Sudamen's final message ringing his ears: "A mausoleum...this museum is a mausoleum...this museum is a mausoleum."_

-oOo-

_Fake Plastic Trees_ by Radiohead  
_Bones_ by Radiohead

There was no place in this chapter for a nice dream. Poor Riker.


End file.
